Warcraft 2: Beyond the Dark Portal
by Jeremy
Summary: Six years after the Fall of the Dark Portal, the Horde resurfaces once more. To prevent a Third War, the Alliance must strike at their enemies...in Dreanor itself. CHAPTER NINETEEN POSTED!
1. Prologue

**Warcraft: Beyond the Dark Portal**

**Prologue: Simmering Darkness**

Early Summer 606, Black Morass, Wildlands

These were grievous times.

That though had clung to Kilrogg Deadeyes' mind for many moons, and flirted with him as he looked out the flat, dank ground that led to what could be the Bleeding Hollow Clan's final stand. He did not think of himself when he said so, but rather of his people's destiny, one that seemed in increasing jeopardy.

The Horde. Created in the early times of Killrogg's rule, grown from shamans' clans into a force that subjugated an entire world under its fist. To conquer and rule had seemed to be his people's destiny. It had been his belief that it would be, that it must, and that the bloodlust and fighting rage were nothing but blessing. That had been why Kilrogg and his Clan had made the Pact with the Legion, that was why the Clan had followed Blackhand the Destroyer and later, the even more magnificent Orgrimm Doomhammer. Doomhammer, with his powerful warlord Argal Grimfrost, had almost succeeded in destroying the human's Alliance, driving it back to their capital, before Gul'Dan's treachery maimed the Horde's might.

Then the impossible had arrived. The Horde had been pushed back by the Alliance, broken at Blackrock Spire and scattered at the Portal. The humans and their allies had been quick in taking advantage of their victories. Most of his people now lived in guarded camps, while others hid in the wilderness or in well-hidden colonies. Some, like the Bleeding Hollow, had chosen none of the options and had fled, and for well over five human years had eked out a living by raid and foraging.

'Dogs', Kilrogg thought, anger seizing him at the very word. 'We've been hunted throughout these lands like humans would chase rabid dogs! Zuluhed may still hold some territory, but that's only a fragile land. Eventually the dwarves and the humans would have enough resources to come after that fool! But its still better than Grimfrost, that blasted traitor!'

The old chieftain fought to control his welling wrath. Unlike the younger members of his Clan, he was now used to dealing with the hot blood, which gave the orcs their power in battle. He had other things to worry about, and lamenting over the past would serve no purpose. He had to lead his people back home, and not in this land of pink-skinned fools. He was simply hoping the dire times would not become the last for his proud warriors.

He was trusting recurring dreams, which had urged him to lead the remnants of his people - barely a few thousands after years of infighting, Alliance pursuit and anger - though enemy territory, to the portal, following the guidance of one who promised a way back to Dreanor, their true home. He only hoped the dreams weren't his aging mind playing tricks on him.

He showed none of his doubts to his warriors or the returning scouts - to do so invited weakness in himself and removal, probably through a fatal duel. He only gave a level, one-eyed gaze as they came to him. Each of them looked as gaunt and as hungry as he himself felt - subsistence had been hard to find - but they all looked at him with faith and resolve.

"How are things?" he asked simply.

"The humans don't like the swamps." one sneered. "They keep their patrols near Nethergarde, and they're more busy splashing water on themselves than watching out for us!" That was the way things were with humans, Kilrogg mused to himself, with their heavy armour and the ease with which they catch illnesses in these lands. Still, the chieftain told himself with grudging clarity, it was a good thing that the humans were being quiet. His people were gathered in strength, but hunger and weakness was overcoming them. They would never survive a large engagement.

"I suppose we will move, then." He declared at last. "And if I was tricked, and the humans wait in ambush, then the Bleeding Hollow will fight to the last, without surrendering!"

The warriors did not cheer - such a noise would certainly have brought the Alliance patrols down on them - but they gave him approving gazes. Indeed, many looked eager to give their life in battle. To an orc grunt, it was certainly better than being run down like a fleeing boar. Kilrogg, however, wasn't so safe in that belief. He had seen too many orclings die during the years of flight, too many males and females. The thought of leading what remained to their deaths was unappealing at best. As if reading his hidden thoughts, a cold, disembodied voice the old chieftain disliked intensely and feared just as much rang out.

"There is not time for such talk! The power that beckons is dark and strong. There is power awaiting us, feeling for us as we speak. But not for long! We must go now, chieftain, or wither to nothing here!"

Many warriors fidgeted as the aged chieftain faced the nearby being that had talked. Shrouded in a cloak and the remains of what had once been fine human plate armour, only glowing ethereal eyes and a pungent smell of decay told of the Death Knight's powerful, unnatural presence.

"Varlog, I need no advice from you. The Bleeding Hollow Clan moves when I say so. Never before." Death Knights, undead creations that had spread fear on many battlefields, were no longer many. Most had been killed during the last battles of the war, while some had fled to Dreanor before the Alliance took control of the Portal. As for the rest, some had fallen prey to the ever-growing number of the accursed Paladins and human sorcerers.

Yet, even one was fearsome. One did not speak to a Death Knight as Kilrogg did. But the aged chieftain would not let anyone assume command over his people. To salvation or destruction, he would be the one to lead them this day.

Their gaze locked in silent combat, and although some part of the old orc quailed from the undead gaze, the spirit that had held him through years of leadership and battles made him hold on. 'I will not be broken by a warlock spirit in a human corpse!' he repeated to himself savagely. Finally, the intensity of the ethereal look dimmed grudgingly.

"Very well, chieftain. You lead." Varlog said almost petulantly. "Then, what is your decision? Does the Bleeding Hollow Clan rush in and hope that the powers aid them, or do they go back to a life of fugitives awaiting capture by the humans?"

And there was everything in one sentence, wasn't there? It sounded too realistic to Kilrogg's mind. He again saw the deaths, always burying new dead. Always fleeing, defeated when they gave battle, their spirits drained of their power and hope. A shadow of a once mighty Clan.

The choice was his. To trust in the dreams, to trust in this power. Or to doom his people.

Was there truly ever any choice?

* * *

Early Summer 606, Nethergarde, Wildlands

"Captain Bram! Captain Bram!" Third Sword Hanse Dryfield's youthful voice rang out, penetrating Bram Poorglade's fuzzy, alcohol-muddled mind. The voice seemed to assail him from everywhere at once, hammering at him with the force of three ogre fists. Had the lad been close at hand, he probably would have strangled him for waking him up in such a moment. His dreams had been...well, there had been no dreams. 'A good sleep.' he grunted to himself as he shifted in his bed sheets. 'A luxury I can't get near enough these days. Damned dwarven spirits. Blasted kid. Cursed life.'

"Captain Bram!" The voice shouted again, unmistakably excited as always. The hangovered veteran couldn't escape it, no matter how he wished it.

"How by all that the Holy Light surveys can he shout right through a heavy wooden door, Pa?" he growled. His departed father, as always, kept his answers to himself. Cursed life. With words that would probably have gotten him a lecture from either a priest or a paladin, he heaved himself off his bed, being careful to hide the half-empty bottle of dwarven spirits before he sat in the chair next to his bunk, pulling his boots on.

"Light burn ya, Hanse, just come in before you break the door! I'm awake now, can't do much good havin' the door closed!" he shouted sarcastically. On cue, the door opened. Or rather, nearly slammed into the wall, admitting a young man with bright, excited green eyes in the chain shirt and helm and sword of the Alliance Infantry. Hanse's face - painful in its naive desire to please - seemed lit up like a magic orb.

"Captain, you have to come to the battlements!" the young man said quickly, nearly bouncing - bouncing! - in place. "You must see this! Its not normal!"

Poorglade grunted. Like many of the Alliance soldiers who had survived, Bram had found the post-war era difficult to live with for many reasons, and he had remained in the Alliance Army. With help from his former commander, Aerth Swiftblade, he'd been assigned as second-in-command of Nethergarde's resident garrison.

Nethergarde itself had been built on the now-historic place where the Lord-Generals of the Alliance had met with High General Turalyon one last time before launching the battle, which heralded the end of the Second War. With funding from Dalaran, a large keep and many outbuildings had been built, including a smithy, stables and a small temple to the Holy Light. The compound had been surrounded by a large, magic-strengthened wall and a runic, mithril gate. Such had been the place created to guard against the orcs' possible return.

The only thing Poorglade had had to guard against, in three years, were boredom and the humidity of the Black Morass, but Hanze Dryfield seemed made up of nothing but optimism. As such, every insignificant change seemed a cause for rejoicing. As it was, Hanse and the unproven part of the garrison were starting to get on the experienced soldier's nerves. Still, remembering a time when he had been like Hanse fifteen years before, Poorglade forced calm unto himself despite a definitely aching head.

"What is it now, Hanse? Another group of crocodiles loitering outside the walls? Or maybe you've seen a troll, like last time? Or maybe it's something else entirely. Please tell me. I can't wait." 'Well, maybe I'm not that calm after all.' he mused inwardly. Hanse, as always didn't notice his captain's tone.

"Its not like that, captain. Its just...the forest parts are damned quiet, if you see what I mean. And there's something from the south. Something strange. Like...black oil in the sky.

Poorglade raised his head and stared at the youth intently at the last. "The forest all quiet, and something in the sky down south?" He was inclined to disbelieve this as fairy tale, but the young man's eyes were adamant this time. Something deep in his gut - a part that had saved many a veteran's life - stirred, and Poorglade quickly put on his armour, ordering the Third Sword outside.

He hadn't made it to the wall when he felt it. A strange quiet, abnormal for what was usually a place alive with the noises of the Black Morass' life. Something about it reminded him of his old days, walking as a recruit under a sweltering sun, as the marshes around him went quiet right before he had faced his first battle against the orcs.

Poorglade nearly ran up the battlements to look out. What he saw, along with nervous footmen and mages, burned away his headache and made him shiver.

There was something filling up space in the south, spreading faster, northwards. A sort of blackness that he knew without asking the mages to be unnatural. It was an effect he'd seen only a few times, but the scope of it, the magnitude of the tempest he saw developing, was much greater then any he had seen.

It was as if a giant octopus had secreted its black oil against the sun, clouding it and the land under an ominous, threatening gloom and rapidly increasing winds. It was dark magic, he saw it in the eyes of every veteran he knew, and felt it in his soul.

"Do you think its them, captain? The orcs, I mean?" Hanse asked nearby. And as he spoke, a clamour rose from the forest. Voices. Thousands of them. Walking briskly, chanting war songs. They spoke in a language and a way he'd come to know well. His reaction was immediate.

"Light...secure the gate! Sound the alarms. Every man, to arms!" he called loudly. With the garrison commander out to Stormwind to meet King Varien, it fell upon him to call the stunned men to order. The veterans of the Second War reacted at once, shaking off their stupor in an instant, a placid yet grim mask on their features forming as officers gave order and soldiers prepared for battle. Mages opened spellbooks while others went to send messages to Stormwind Keep. The recruits were slower to respond, unused as they were to the situation despite training, but within moments the entire keep was active.

Darkness fell. Winds roared. And in the distance all could hear the march of thousands of orcish feet. Shrieks were heard, shrieks of dragons, over the clamour. Bram's blood turned to ice, waiting for the onslaught. Yet it never came. As the darkness blocked his vision outside the fortress, and as Nethergarde wizards seemed to have no success in dispelling it despite obvious incantations, Nethergarde was at the Horde's mercy.

Yet the clamour never gained strength. Rather, slowly but inexorably, it seemed to leech away, disappearing into the southern reaches of the Black Morass. It was then that the realization truly entered Bram Poorglade's mind. It wasn't pleasant. Compared to its portents, a thousand hangovers were easy trifles. But it fit. He knew it, and from other veteran expressions - expressions that had located where the Horde was disappearing in, who knew it by heart - there was no doubt. He grabbed the nearest wizard and nearly made the man fall over the battlement with the surprising movement.

"Contact Lord Khadgar with your spells, wizard. We all know its open." he looked up at the unnatural blackness. He did not say what 'it' was. That much was plain. "The Light help us, its open."

* * *

Early Summer 606, Dark Portal Corridor, Twisting Nether

The Twisted Nether. The link between the human world and Dreanor ran through and was partly nourished by it. At the very least, that was what Kilrogg had come to understand by it. Now, as he led his people back to his homeworld, the old chieftain could see how true that assumption had been. And how dangerous the terrain he was traversing was.

The journey between the worlds had been, when he had used it long ago, a corridor of strange purple hues, straight from one end to the other. This was not the way it had been at first - the human wizard who had created the Portal had also managed to stabilize it - and here he felt he was seeing the reason so many of the first expeditions had never returned, or returned raving and insane.

The walls of the corridor seemed to flow in strange ways, with arcs of arcane power jutting from them at irregular intervals. Such things he could have dealt with. He had seen worse in his long life. But Kilrogg saw something infinitely more frightening, something that shook even his heart hardened by conflict and a curse of bloodlust he could never lift.

Outside the walls, which seemed thin and weak, he could see the Great Dark Beyond, in its infinite darkness and unfathomable cold. He could also see, in this dimension, the denizens of this world. Not directly, only something queer at the edge of his vision. He felt that, if he looked hard enough, he would see the infinite ranks of the Burning Legion watching him.

Kilrogg Deadeye chose not to look hard enough to see it.

"Make certain everyone stays away from these walls!" he told his most trusted warriors. "The orclings and the females must stay in the middle! Again, don't touch these walls for any reason! I don't trust them. By the Beyond, I don't trust them."

"The power that set this path is near. We have almost reached the other side." Varlog announced in a hollow voice rendered even more menacing than ever by the circumstances. Not for the first time, Kilrogg wondered if he had made the right choice. 'But did I have a choice at that time?'

"Help me!" The terror-filled scream came from near the front of the column, and the old chieftain quickly found who had spoken. One of his grunts had been surprised by the shifting walls, and was caught. At first it seemed as if he was simply being held there by the shifting energies, but the orc was clearly straining. The Bleeding Hollow leader realized it at once: something was physically pulling him to the other side. He saw some orcs moving in to help.

"No! Leave him!" He thundered, putting all of his years of leadership into his voice. They stopped, and looked at him with stunned eyes. Years of hiding and surviving forged a bond between the remaining members of the Bleeding Hollow Clan. Abandoning one of their own was almost impossible to bear.

And it had to be done.

"We can't do anything for him! Back to the column! NOW!" he shouted. They hesitated, but at that moment the grunt disappeared through the wall. All around them, eerie sounds intensified. He gave the Death Knight a look. "Close to the opening? Pray to the Beyond, that we will not join it! Everyone, hasten the pace!"

They did, and as they advanced the shimmering walls seemed to draw closer. One grunt screamed, then another. Then many others. The cacophony of death began to echo down the magical corridor, and Kilrogg had to steel himself against the despair welling up inside of him. He was the chieftain; he wouldn't dash their hopes by abandoning his. He continued to march forward.

Forward. Forcing his aging body on at a fast pace, not letting the dread overwhelm him, not letting the anger overwhelm him, not letting fatigue overwhelm him. He stepped forward once more... and saw the flickering, translucent end of the tunnel. Dreanor was near.

"We have come! The power is near!" The Death Knight said, and then seemed to stagger a moment. "I recognize it. I do recognize it!"

There was no time to ask the undead creature about it. Kilrogg motioned forward, and quickly to the opening. Behind him, he heard the thunder of thousands following him, of dragons uneasily flying near the corridor's roof, of ogres, orcs and trolls quickly marching down. He took one step, heard something akin to voices from the corridor. And, as quickly as that, emerged thought the Portal, seeing a sight he had not seen in nearly a quarter of a human century.

Grey-green grounds. Stringy trees. Moist weather. A reddish sky. Home.

He turned to see his people coming through the Portal, ever more numerous. Cries of fear and anger were replaced by cries of happiness, and Kilrogg took his notched axe and raise a bellow of victory his warriors all took up. 'Alive! We have survived! We are home!' his elated mind told him, almost refusing to believe it.

"Welcome back to your home, Kilrogg Deadeye, chieftain of the great Bleeding Hollow Clan!" A voice told him from nearby, and deadeye turned to see an orc dressed in the manner of the shamans of old, his face painted with a white and black mask. It was a very old orcish face, and a face Kilrogg knew only too well.

"The power which opened the Portal was yours. I'm not surprised." Varlog sepulchral voice drifted in. Kilrogg had already guessed it, had already thought about it. 'Who else but he or Gul'Dan could do this? And with Gul'Dan dead, nothing of this is really surprising.'

"This is all very good. Again, Kilrogg Deadeyes, welcome." the old orc's wrinkled mouth of yellow teeth and broken tusks grinned the grin of the arrogant and the powerful. "Ner'Zul, chietain of the Shadowmoon Clan, welcomes you."

* * *

Early Summer 606, Black Morass, Wildlands

After an extensive survey of the Alliance's defences in the Kingdom of Azeroth, Aerth Swiftblade had found it good to return to his home, to his wife and growing children. He had intended to make the best of the time he had, but all of that would have gone after a good night's rest. At forty, age hadn't yet caught up with the Duke of Sunshire, but he could feel his body beginning to slow down. He needed more rest, was somewhat less spry than he had once been.

Which is why he had really not liked being shaken awake an hour before sunrise. Anger and indignation, however, had faded to surprise and quickly concern as he had recognized the one who had done so. It had been neither a member of his family or a servant, but Khadgar himself. A short conversation and a quick fitting of plate armour - aided by magical aids to speed things up - and the knight and wizard had teleported to Nethergarde, to meet a force ready to go investigate the nearby disturbance.

'A disturbance.' he grunted mentally at the understatement. 'We may be looking at a Third War here. And we're not ready. Light be with us, we just can't fight another war like that yet!' Yet as he looked at the shimmering tear hanging in the air, Swiftblade realized he might not have much choice in the matter. Vedran, his vibrant eldest, was thirteen years of age, which meant he would fight in this Third War just like his father had fought in the First. Not a pleasant thought.

"Well, Alleria?" He asked as the exiled Ranger-General of Quel'Thalas finished gathering information from her hunters.

"There's no doubt, general. The signs and prints give a clear picture that the Bleeding Hollow Clan bypassed our hunting parties," she began with more than a little bitterness, "marched to here and disappeared, probably through that rift."

"But I thought we had managed to seal it-" Swiftblade began.

"Seal it? No. We put a makeshift ward to prevent people from passing through, but I knew it wouldn't hold indefinitely." Khadgar looked old now, Swiftblade thought, cares and worries having turned the powerful archmage into an aging man in few years of time. He looked even older as he regarded the Dark Portal's remains with a look of resignation. "I did think it would hold longer."

"None of the wizards here could penetrate that black fog. T'was definitely unnatural, milord." Swiftblade heard Bram Poorglade speak. Poorglade had done a good job getting the fortress ready for battle, given its foppish commander's absence, and he'd insisted on leading the details accompanying the three Alliance leaders to the centre of the problem.

"Magic, most likely. Powerful magic of demonic origins would be able to pierce my spell, but it would take time, effort, a powerful mind and some mighty artefacts." the Archmage mused. "This foe is not one to be underestimated."

"I never underestimate these foul beasts." Alleria growled, her pretty eyes flashing angrily. Anger had been her most frequent emotion since her exile from Silvermoon. "I'll find stragglers, I'll find the truth from them if I have to beat all of them to death!"

Swiftblade didn't say anything for a moment. He only gave Khadgar a long look. Weary, the mage seemed. Weary about this and more. He had heard that there were problems in Dalaran, problems dealing with a possible magical schism in the ancient arcane city. Hearsay and gossip that he had never entertained. But now...

He made his decision.

"Alleria, do not bother capturing stragglers." he said as he shifted his gaze to the rift. "I have a better use of your fleet feet and quick wits. I have a mission for you."

"Sir, I must insist that-" The elf began, but Swiftblade raised his voice slightly, giving her a steely look. Wanting it or not, if there was a war, he would do everything to prevent the slaughter which had taken his parents and far too many friends.

"Alleria, I am the one who, as Lord-General, must insist. I hereby order you to send your swiftest scouts and go to every military stronghold they can reach. Tell them that the High General orders all available units to the Black Morass, and that swiftness is paramount." He said.

"High General Turalyon? With all due respect, you can't act as the High General. That's exceeding your authority!" Poorglade gasped. Aerth only gave a shrug at the fact.

"Given the circumstances, I'm certain Turalyon won't mind me temporarily acting in his name. If he does, he can tell me so when he gets here. Which is where you come in, Alleria. Once your people are sent, gather a few to yourself and go find Turalyon. Tell him the situation. He'll act on that." Swiftblade could sense a good deal of hesitation from both human and elf, but he couldn't concern himself with it. Already, his mind was turning towards armaments, defences and possible strategies.

"I will bring back what spellcasters I can, and advise the Silver Hand of this." Khadgar finally said after a long look at the rift. "I will come back as soon as I am able." With a hearty sigh and a few arcane words, he was gone. Swiftblade was already shifting his attention to Poorglade.

"We need to review Nethergarde's garrison, and prepare for new arrivals. When the Horde comes back - and if their nature is proof, they shall - I intend for the fortress to be as large a hindrance as it can be. I saw what happens to us when we are caught unprepared firsthand. It will not be so this time." He gestured to Alleria. "I need you to do this, Alleria. I do need it. Find Turalyon, find whoever can help, and bring them back to this place."

Vedran, fighting the Horde in bloody battlefields? Never. He wouldn't allow his eldest son to be scarred by years of war.

When the Horde came, he'd be as ready as possible.

* * *

Author's Notes: Well, here we are! The beginning of the warcraft expansion given out in words! Its very interesting because I will have much to create about Dreanor, and this in itself makes it all worth it. You can be certain you'll see all of the major players of Tides of Darkness at some point, and I will flesh out and introduce new characters more important to this story.

As for the Dalaran story, I have decided to largely incorporate it in this story. Be sure that the human homeland will have their own share of upheavals, and not all caused by the Horde's resurgence.

I hope you'll enjoy things here as I progressively write them out!

Jeremy


	2. Chapter One: Uncertain Times

**Chapter One: Uncertain Times...**

Late Summer 606, Fortress Shadowmoon, Shadowmoon Clan Territory

Even among mighty fortresses, Fortress Shadowmoon, the heart of the Shadowmoon Clan, stood out. Large, carved partly into the mountain's flank and surrounded by a thick wall of stone and wooden pikes, the great compound, with its large food stores, armouries, forges and barracks, was protected by a very large force of grim orcs and ogres. It was arguably the safest place in Dreanor, be it to rest or to talk of plans.

Ner'Zul was discussing very important plans with several important leaders. Seated around him in his private sanctum, was Korgath Bladefist of the Shattered Hand, an old, feisty warrior who dreamed of bloodshed and whom had had to be brought to heel by Shadowmoon's full might. There was also Grom Hellscream, the charismatic, violent leader of the Warsong Clan and a steadfast - and rather easy to manipulate - ally. And finally, Kilrogg Deadeye, an old adversary turned ally, not to mention a sort of hero for younger orcs.

The three most powerful clans after Shadowmoon itself, Ner'Zul knew that, with these three on his side, he controlled Dreanor. 'Not that it would matter, if the Horde falls in and tears itself apart. Or if -he- decides to take his vengeance sooner than I'd expect-' he shivered at the thought, struggled to put it aside, and asked the question that he'd been preparing.

"This...Alliance...you say its composed of...'Nations'. I suppose that is something like our Clans?" He asked slowly, holding a filled mug of mead in one hand. Unlike Bladefist and Hellscream, Deadeye hadn't taken anything to drink, which showed how changed the orc was: the old chieftain had once been very fond of strong drink.

"It's more complicated than that." the aged chieftain mused, "But I suppose it can be seen this way. Seven ruled by the humans, two from the short dwarves and one from the long-eared elves."

"So the humans control the Alliance?" Ner'Zul waited for Kilrogg's nod before continuing. "Then we need to see. Which are the most powerful of the human...nations?" Nations. What a strange name.

"The strongest is probably Lordaeron, followed by cursed Azeroth. I suppose Kul Tiras and Dalaran are committed too. With the dwarven realms, I guess they're the core." Deadeye seemed increasingly uneasy. "Why am I telling you this? You can't seriously be thinking about making war on the Alliance."

"And why shouldn't we?" Bladefist growled as Hellscream nodded his personal assent. "We should show these humans terror and blood for standing against us! Let our warriors bloody themselves in human entrails!"

"Foolishness. Stupid, thoughtless... I didn't explain myself to a wall, did I! I told you that the humans were rebuilding. Our people were beaten! It's simple this way? Beaten. We came close to victory, we tasted it many times, almost crushed our enemy. But we were betrayed, we fought the traitors but then we were too weak to fight our true enemy." Ner'Zul saw rising anger in Deadeye's expression - the old chieftain wasn't used to having to explain himself again, and the other chieftains' expression weren't encouraging.

"Calm down, chieftains." Ner'Zul said soothingly as he felt the situation become dangerous. "I want to know who or what our enemy is. That is all. We won't fight a war until I say so. Please understand this well." He meant it more for Bladefist, but gave Hellscream a small, searching look. The younger orc leader was loyal and naive, but also prone to actions over thoughts, like many an orc. 'A price for the foolish deal I made. A price we must free ourselves of to claim our true destiny.'

"Now, you say we're not ready to win a war against this Alliance? You think the Horde as inferior to these humans and their allies?" Ner'Zul made certain he put much challenge into his question. He had been impressed by the death knights and dragons, by the Bleeding Hollow's mighty weapons, and wondered what force could have defeated Doomhammer.

"NO!" The one-eyed old orc roared fiercely, his hands clenching into yet-mighty fists, his eye flaring with anger, bloodthirst and hate for a moment. Then he contained himself. Ner'Zul marvelled at that - the orcs from the human world seemed more able to contain their violence.

"No," he repeated more softly, "I don't believe that the Horde is inferior. We lost because of Gul'Dan's treachery. But even if I believe that we are superior in some ways, the humans have large armies, their population is large and, more importantly, they're used to our ways, while most orcs here don't know how to deal with human tactics."

"You have convinced me." Ner'Zul said, "We won't go to crush the humans. I've talked with other survivors, questioned some... deserters," something in him balked at the word, "And I've come to similar conclusions. We don't have enough weapons, enough orcs, enough strength to win a war against the humans now, and so we won't wage a war."

At once, both Bladefist and Hellscream were on their feet, glaring, the bloodlust easily defined on their faces. While the aged shaman thought the blade-armed chieftain would be the one to growl his displeasure, it was Hellscream who spoke first, his voice booming through the room and echoing on the timber and stone.

"You said we would fight!" he growled, "For years, I've been denied! My Clan has been denied! You said we would show the humans terror! That they would know fear and hatred from us! I want to fight! Our people want to fight! Not wallow here like some cowardly Draenai who hide in-"

"Be SILENT, Hellscream." Ner'Zul hissed, and he felt the flare of his magic coursing through his body. Of all orcs, only Gul'Dan had ever been the stronger spellcaster. As great a warrior that Hellscream was - and he was great indeed - he was no match for Shadowmoon's leader. "You here serve ME. Never forget that. Never think that you can contradict me. I won't tolerate it." The warning in his eyes, this time, seemed to pierce them, and even Bladefist averted his gaze slightly. His control assured once more, the old shaman continued his plans.

"We won't wage a war, because we don't have the numbers and the resources. The humans, I've learned, breed about as fast as we do, and have some strange 'holy' magic which seems to help them thrive further. But the humans' resources and population will be limited to their world. If we were to open not just one portal, but dozens? What if we took resources from many worlds, used them to grow?"

"Is that even possible?" Bladefist asked with disdain, but there was a hint of eagerness in his voice.

"It will be, if we manage to retrieve some of the artefacts from the human who created the portal. I managed to gather information through contacts, but I am missing some key elements. Elements now in human hands." He gave a wrinkled, broken-tusked grin as he saw their faces show sudden understanding. "That is right. If we are to be strong, if the Horde is to become absolute and powerful beyond imagining, then we will have to fight the humans, fiercely, the first step being in showing our strength at Nethergarde. But that will only be a feint-"

There was a tremendous uproar outside, voices of orcs and ogres growling challenges and warnings, some in anger, most in fear, and a sound of tremendous wings. Before any in the sanctum could do more than look towards the sole window in the room, they were shaken by what seemed to be a minor earthquake, as something tremendous seemed to land right next to Ner'Zul's abode. The old shaman steadied himself while Hellscream drew axe and sword and charged to the window, tearing the skin-made veil over it, tearing it off with one motion.

Then Hellscream, the warrior who had eagerly charged into battle, stood speechless and paralysed as he stared at a dragon. Ner'Zul quickly saw why. The black-winged and black-scaled dragons that had come to Dreanor were immense and mighty, but they seemed, as the old shaman came to look in wonder and more than a little trepidation, small and puny next to this one. Around the battlements, orcs and ogres cowered despite themselves. He was amazed at the magical and physical might he felt from this one, and he barely heard Kilrogg Deadeye's gasp.

"Deathwing!" The chieftain breathed.

"INDEED. WELL MET, KILROGG DEADEYE. WELL MET AT LAST, NER'ZUL OF SHADOWMOON. I HAVE BEEN LISTENING TO YOUR CONVERSATION AND FOUND IT INTRIGUING. DO YOU TRULY WISH TO BRING TERROR AND CHAOS TO THE HUMANS AND ALL THEIR ALLIES?" The voice seemed to fill the space, coming from a tremendous throat.

Ner'Zul was amazed but not afraid. He had felt greater powers before. He didn't ask how the dragon had been able to eavesdrop through his spells, for it didn't matter. He felt an insanity of sort in the one whom some orcs called the Fallen Dragonlord. A way of being completely fueled towards chaos and evil. A very cunning mind, but with flaws which could be exploited. Ner'Zul saw it all even as he answered.

"I do. The Horde will rule. That is my goal. And I do intend to make the humans pay for the defeat they gave us." Not entirely the truth, but enough to be convincing. He thought that the dragon heard what had been unsaid, felt it. But as he saw the dragon show its teeth, he knew that they would be able to meet halfway...for a time."

"THEN, NER'ZUL, YOU WILL ACCEPT MY SERVICES, AS LONG AS I WISH TO GIVE THEM. FOR YOU WILL NEED ME IN THE DAYS TO COME. AND I, FOR MY PART, WILL HAVE SOME AMUSEMENT." The dragon finally stated, cementing something that would be useful indeed, or so Ner'Zul thought.

And the plan the shaman had taken years to concoct twisted and changed to adapt.

* * *

Late Summer 606, Stormwind Keep, Azeroth

Once he had received the news, King Varien had quickly dispatched royal wizards of the keep to the other rulers of the Alliance, with a message detailing the events and another asking for an emergency meeting between the Alliance members. With Khadgar already present, Dalaran had sent a reply giving him full rights to the proceedings in the Kirin Tor's name. It was secretive, almost curt a reply, and not for the first time, Wrynn wondered if the situation in Dalaran wasn't much worse than some surmised.

Some countries had replied positively and quickly. Within hours, the rulers of Lordaeron, Kul Tiras and Khaz Modan had been transported to Stormwind Keep, while a more reluctant Thoras Trollbane appeared a day later to take his seat in Stromgarde's name. Gilneas and Quel'Thalas, however, had only agreed to agree to have their ambassadors take part in the Council, an embarrassing, frustrating but ultimately unsurprising move.

"It is breaking down, is it not, Your Eminence?" The king asked as he walked. Beside him, an aged but alert Alonsus Faol sighed as the two made their way to the War Council chambers.

"I suppose you are talking about the Alliance, Your Highness?" the old man queried. "Yes, it can only be that. And yes, it is falling. It was always falling. From the first, perhaps."

"And yet, we won the Second War by achieving unity." the king countered. The archbishop raised a wrinkled finger.

"Our soldiers held that unity because of their shared fear and anger. They united to survive and did eventually regard each other as brothers, regardless of race or nation. But the leadership? No, they never united. They tolerated each other because of King Terenas's support to Lord Lothar, and because of Lothar's sheer force of will. The moment Lothar died, it began to erode, luckily not too badly, and not before the war was over, thank the Light!"

They came to the council doors, which two bearing the arms of the Silver Hand opened, announcing the new arrivals. Out of duty and politeness, all rose to greet the newcomers, only sitting when they had. There was tension in the air, and the King of Azeroth knew that words had already been exchanged before he arrived.

"I can already answer that neither Her Majesty the Queen, nor the Council of Silvermoon will tolerate such a situation!" the elf that served as the High Elf ambassador said quickly. Tension mounted at once.

"It is not a matter of tolerating, ambassador." Khadgar answered irritably. "Its a matter of common sense! The portal is opening again. Its still unstable now, but our best portal experts, including this man before you, are certain that the energies will stabilize within a matter of weeks at the best!"

"Then why not do that spell that you wizards did seven years ago?" Proudmoore queried. No longer inflamed by the hate that had made him order his fleet to level Crestfall, the naval nation's sovereign's face only showed disdain for the orcs.

"It cannot be done. The spell I used was a high risk as it was, and because of several circumstances, we won't be able to gather the arcane might needed."

"One moment, Lord Khadgar." Kind Terenas asked smoothly. The aged ruler was pensive for a moment, before gazing back with his usual calm, decisive mien. "You say you are unable to gather the arcane might. I admit that, with Azeroth and Quel'Thalas weakened, only the archmages of Dalaran may be able to possess that level of power. Why not inquire for the Kirin Tor's assistance?"

All looked at Khadgar's face expectantly, and the powerful spellcaster's face became troubled for an instant. It was fleeting, but Varien had been in the world of intrigue and politics long enough to see it. He was certain that the other monarchs had seen it too.

"That is...quite impossible. As of now, there are only three archmages of power which can be reached in Dalaran." Khadgar mused. This shocked several in the room, and looks were exchanged, looks which spoke of confirmed suspicions. Something had been going on in Dalaran for several years, and the wizards had been tight-lipped about it. Here, at last, was information.

"How can that be? Dalaran is home to more arcane masters, wizards, mages and sorcerers than any other land in this entire continent. How can so few answer the call? What is happening in your damned country?" Trollbane spat, slamming his fist down on the table.

"I cannot answer that, by the Kirin Tor's order."

"And yet you wish for us to prepare for a possible invasion while the mages of Dalaran do nothing to prevent it? Laughable!" Trollbane growled.

"I was not saying that -"

"Yet you are! Gilneas will not sponge off its resources while its neighbour nurses its strength-"

"Please, please, gentlemen-"

"Haven't we lost enough without having to pay for Dalaran's cowardliness in-"

"By the Light, please!" Alonsus Faol said sternly, and the cacophony of angry voices and recriminations died in surprise. Of all rulers, only Varien and Terenas hadn't participated in the debacle, and Varien saw that the old king was glad for the archbishop's intervention. "I apologize for this tone, Your Majesties. Yet I must remind all gathered here that this problem is the problem of all of our races, all of our nations. Yes, we have lost much. But this is not the time for groundless accusations."

"Hear, hear!" Magni Bronzebeard said, nodding. "Finally some sense in this blasted council!"

"This is not a question of sense, either, but simply of survival. You here are the most powerful men and women on this land. The Alliance's actions edge upon your own. If you stay inactive because of disagreements, what will become of the people?" the priest stated as if addressing the masses, "Do you believe we are in any state to weather such a conflict as the one we barely prevailed in?"

There was only an uneasy silence at that. King Varien knew what they were all thinking, for he was thinking the same: the Alliance was weak, it was still rebuilding, still struggling to maintain the vast concentration camps for the orc survivors. It wouldn't be able to field the enormous forces it once had. Not for many years yet. And Azeroth would never be able to check the Horde, as it had been able to for five years, in the First War.

It was then that Terenas spoke again. He had listened to all sides, as he ever did, and spoke with patience and calm. Of all of the nations that made up the Alliance, Lordaeron had the largest population and that largest army, as well as being the homeland of the revered Knights of the Silver Hand. Terenas's power over the other nations made him Patron of the Alliance and, with Lothar gone, it's most important figure. When he spoke, everyone listened, genuinely interested or reluctant.

"I sense a wind of panic here, and I think that we must not panic. Our lands are weakened, but out people are yet strong and numerous, our armies are rebuilding. We are not helpless. If necessary, we can probably fight a limited war. But to know the extent of our capabilities, we are missing advice from our greatest military minds." The king looked around the table, his elderly gaze solemn. "I say that we must wait for High General Turalyon's opinion before proceeding any further, yet prepare forces just in case."

"Lord-General Swiftblade is already assessing the situation at Nethergarde, and I have learned that Lord-General Eltrass would soon join him. As for Lord-General Minvare..." he gazed at Bronzebeard, who shrugged uneasily. "At any rate, it is clear that the High General must be found and that he must assess this. As for his location-"

"As for that, Your Highness," Khadgar said, "I have heard that Duke Swiftblade has already sent a party to search for him. It seems that the High General has been making the round in Azeroth, visiting churches and rooting out Horde remnants. He has been moving swiftly."

As if expunging himself of his sins. Or confessing.

"How like him." Terenas sighed, almost amused, and no one had anything to say to that, either.

* * *

Late Summer 606, Elwynn Forest, Azeroth

"In the name of the Light and the Alliance of Lordaeron, surrender at once!" Turalyon announced to the beleaguered orcish band.

Danath, standing ready with his trusty greatsword in hand, seemed more frustrated by the delay than anything else. The orcs, meanwhile, charged heedless of what the High General had said.

"I seriously doubt they're intendin' on surrenderin', m'lord Turalyon." he groused. "I think its time to show'em some steel!"

The High General of the Alliance could only agree to that. He hadn't expected his request for surrender to be heard, but his code as a knight and a paladin had demanded it. Quickly, he took his warhammer in hand and put his helm on. The longsword at his side he never touched. "Indeed. Then, men, attack!"

Turalyon and Danath had been surveying some internment camps in the area - Danath because of his position as Overseer and Turalyon for reasons he cared not to explain to others. While travelling to one of these camps, they'd come upon sacked farms, and had quickly found the culprits, tracking them relentlessly until they were cornered. And so, the small Alliance contingent fought off an orc band looting the area.

It wasn't anything new, the paladin knew. Even before the Dark Portal had been closed, some in the Horde forces had fled and gone into pillaging what they could. After the final battle of the Second War, the practice had become commonplace, and Alliance forces as well as local militia had to fight off such bands on a relatively regular basis.

In this case, the band was rather large, nearly thirty members, and were facing off against twelve humans all told. But Turalyon's band held several advantages, he knew. First was that Turalyon and three others were mounted, giving them the advantage of speed and height. Another advantage was that the orcs looked tired and malnourished, while the humans were lively, well fed and more organized. Thirdly, and most important in the battle, was the fact that each soldier was a veteran of the Second War, used to fighting outnumbered.

Quickly, with a few words and gestures, the four knights split into two groups of two each, going for the flanks of the enemy, while Danath led an evenly spaced charge with his footmen. The orcs, either tired or too hungry to care, did not attempt to take a counter-formation, and seemingly counted on their numbers. Within instants, the two sides met fiercely.

The general quickly rode to two orcish enemies, and he deftly blocked a blow with his large shield, quickly responding with a swing of his own, while the other knight engaged the enemy just slightly farther off. At the corner of his consciousness, he saw Danath beheading one orc with a great, gleeful battlecry. Restraint prevented such effusion on the paladin's part, but he admitted to feeling some palpable satisfaction when he managed to catch one of his adversaries off-guard, crushing the orc's neck with a strong strike. He glared at the remaining one, and quickly worked to overwhelm him, using his height and experience.

"The Light have mercy on your wretched soul!" He snarled, swiping the axe from his enemy's hand. "Surrender, or be destroyed, orc!"

"Orukthar Arradun!" The orc shouted, and, taking out a dagger from his belt, charged forth. The sheer futility of the attack nearly made the knight feel pity for the creature. Nearly. After the dagger had glanced off armour and shield twice, Turalyon pummelled his enemy into either unconsciousness or death.

The battle was quickly turning in favour of the human troops. Although three footmen lay on the ground, Danath had managed to break the main resistance, while the knights were holding on, one of them seemingly seriously wounded. The orcs, for their part, had lost nearly a dozen of their comrades. Seemingly realizing where this would ultimately lead, several orcs broke and ran for the woods. It was a move certainly made more grudgingly than it would have been for humans, and only a very few did, but it alleviated the pressure for the Alliance troops. Turalyon let them go - they could be tracked later - and concentrated on confusing the enemy.

The orcs had barely made it two hundred feet when one fell, arrows piercing him. From the darkness of the forest, other arrows flew, and the other orcs quickly followed suit before they could mount any sort of resistance. 'Rangers,' the general thought, 'only rangers can do this so quickly and completely.' It wasn't long before elven shapes emerged from the trees, following at the orcs with deadly accuracy.

It decided the battle. Caught between the rangers, the flanking knights and the remaining footmen, the orcs found themselves outclassed. Most fought, a few others attempted to run. All were cut down.

Not one had surrendered.

Turalyon quickly made his way to the ailing knight, and gently put his hands on the grievous wound. Quickly, he called on the powers of the Holy Light, and a soft glow quickly emanated from his hands. The blood stopped flowing, and the wound closed quickly, until the deadly wound had become minor enough. The knight nodded his thanks, and Turalyon quickly dismounted and made his way to the others. Five footmen needed his aid. Two were well beyond it. To the former, he used what powers he had. The latter, he gave a short prayer for. Only then did he look at the elves, one of which he recognized immediately.

"Hail and well met, lady Alleria." he called, lifting his bloodstained warhammer. "You came at the right time, although I wonder why you would be here. Aren't most of the rangers in this region assigned to the Black Morass?"

"They are. But I was sent here on an urgent order to find you." The elf said, her soft but commanding voice quick, her words pressing. "Lord Turalyon, the Bleeding Hollow Clan has escaped into Dreanor, and the Dark Portal is, according to Lord Khadgar, almost fully open."

Turalyon had been too preoccupied with the battle - an insignificant little skirmish compared to the sheer weight of the news he'd just received. The other footmen and knights also stared, frozen, in disbelief and dawning horror.

The High General almost asked the elf if Khadgar and Swiftblade were sure, but contained himself. He knew those men. Each had their way of doing things, a way he didn't quite agree with, but it was a fact that Khadgar was one of the wisest mages alive, and Swiftblade one of the best battle commanders in the Alliance. They didn't go around saying things on whims. If it they said it was so, chances were that it was.

Instead, the general in him took over. He was no Lothar - he never had been, never would be, of that he was certain - but he knew it was time to act and not hesitate.

"Swiftblade's preparing defences at Nethergarde, I suppose?" at her nod, he felt some of the weight lessen "Excellent. We can count on him. There's no time to waste. Alleria, Danath, here are your orders. Alleria, you go around and bring me every elf warrior prowling these woods. I don't care what they're doing. Bring them to Nethergarde, we'll need their bows and swords."

"I will do so. Salai kalahna - best of luck, general." She said quickly, and spoke a few elven words to her companions. Within a moment, they had bounded into the woods and were lost to eye and ear. Satisfied, Turalyon turned his attention to the waiting Danath.

"Inspection of those camps has become unimportant. Danath, you go and, with my authority, you will recruit, drag, threaten and struggle every man you can. Use whatever means. Forts, towns, cities." he said urgently, "Anywhere you can reach. Then get Stormwind's garrison, Goldshire's, Sunshire's, any town. Get me every single man you can bring me. Break any arms you need to get them arm, then force-march them to Nethergarde."

Danath didn't seem daunted by the task. In fact, his eyes lit up at the prospect. He was a man of action who had been ordered to act.

"You'll get your army. You can be bettin' on that. If these orcs come crashin' through the Portal, they'll have a nasty surprise." he vowed, turning to the footmen. "You and you, dig some graves for those poor souls we lost, and burn the orc dung! The rest of you, with me! Now move out, and don't drag your feet!" he began to walk off briskly, and the men quickly overcame their stupor, choosing the comforting world of orders to soothe them.

Turalyon nodded. That was all he could do for the time being. He looked at the wounded knight. "Can you ride to Nethergarde, friend?"

"To Blackrock Spire if need be, milord!" The Knight answered stoutly.

"Then we ride!" Turalyon announced, kicking his horse into a gallop. "Ride your horse to the brink! I need to be at Nethergarde as soon as can be done!"

* * *

Late Summer 606, Cross Island, Dalaran

Lannis once again attempted to draw upon the energies of magic, arcane words quickly issuing from her lips, her hands moving in intricate patterns as she wove the arcane tapestry through which the energies would gather into the desired form. Immediately, Rena Delado could see that the spell was going to fizzle. The energies were too reluctant, too sluggish, and the will behind it wasn't nudging it in quite the right way. Still she waited for it to happen.

As Rena had foreseen, the icy energies, which should have crafted a blade of arcane ice, shattered, and icy flecks drifted into the hot air, reduced to nothing. Lannis glared at her hands a moment.

"Your hands are not at fault, Lannis." Rena said smoothly from the bench at far side of her mansion's magical practice chamber. "But you know this much already."

"I do, mistress." The slim, blonde-haired woman said with resignation.

"Then don't act as one would expect an ignorant apprentice to." the archwizardess stated, frowning. "Your are my assistant, and as such you must accept failure fully in order to finalize success. The truth of the matter is that you are not very gifted at using any spells with the ice and water medium. Not surprising, given you have above-average ease with the fire medium."

Lannis nodded. She wasn't one who complained about lectures, a good reason why the young woman had progressed out of simple apprenticeship quite quickly. "Then what must I do to learn to opposite medium adequately, mistress?"

"The answer to that is impossible to give until you have made every effort by yourself." Rena sighed at her assistant's resigned expression. "I can only tell you that you are trying too hard to find a simple reason and an even simpler solution. Puzzle out that little riddle for a while, then you may tell me what you think."

"Yes, mistress."

"Now, please go rest yourself. Tomorrow will be a hard day, teaching those four fools to make the difference between a dryad and a harpy, or a fireball and lightning bolt, or whatever new foolery they are capable of. As of now, I need this room for my own experiment. I will see you tomorrow."

Delado knew, as her assistant left the room, that she had been rather brusque. It wasn't meant out of any mean-spiritedness, but rather because it was the way she had been raised and lived at. Her departed parents - able spellcasters both - had been the same, their affection present, but hidden underneath discipline and an inclination to dislike frivolous words and acts. She had always been blunt, to everyone, about anything. She had made few friends, and wanted no more than those few.

She wasn't alerted by anything she heard or saw. She was alone, in the stone room, filled with a row of arcane tomes and tables of alchemy, as well as intricate summoning circles. She had not yet even begun the continuation of the spellcrafting experiment she had been doing for the past three years.

No, she had felt something beyond her senses. A brief flare in the nearby magical tapestry. Just a small fluke, barely at the edge of her consciousness. It was that flare which drove her to run out of the room, into the corridor leading to the rooms of her familial tower. There, as in the experiment chamber, globes forever lit by magical spells illuminated the gloom, making the prone body plain to see. She knew with but a quick glance that it was indeed Lannis.

Rena did not go to her assistant. To do so would force her to lower her guard. Whoever had come had done so without stirring any alarms or wards in her home, a definite feat. 'An assassin? Its not impossible, not after all the stirring I've done back in the Citadel.' she mused grimly, eyeing the darkness warily.

Even her care did not help her. Without warning, a shadow emerged from the shadows on her right. She instinctively turned, raising her hands to cast a spell, arcane words formed in her mind, ready to spew forth.

She never had the chance. The shadow crashed on top of her, lithe and cat-like, her hands smashed to the ground by knees, while a hand clamped on her mouth and a knife was held inches from her throat. 'Skilled. Very skilled.' she thought, cursing herself. 'However, if you think you'll have me this easily.' Eyes looked at her coldly from above, hidden behind a mask with strange sigils and a dark grey hood. A feminine voice spoke, details hidden, certainly by magic.

"You have made many enemies, Mistress Delado." the voice hissed, and there was something about that coldness which spoke of a strained mind. "You're making far too much of a fuss over the higher Councils. You should have kept out of my masters' affairs, if you-"

By that time, Delado had gripped both of her enemy's knees. A seemingly ineffectual move that her would-be killer had not paid attention to, she released electrical mana from her hands. Not usually possible without words or gestures, long years of discipline and commitment allowed Delado such a feat. The attacker grunted in surprise, pain and electricity causing muscles to seize and run aflame. The wizardess took hold of the moment, using all of her strength to push the assailant off her. She only had moments before the enemy recovered, and the instant she was freed, a few words and gestures were done, ignoring fear and painful, smashed fingers, as the assassin leaped at her again, she phased into a shadow, only to reappear farther off.

She could see the enemy now, and was far enough to fight. Her composure was recovered; her mind set and ready, and her hands ignored all wounds. Using years of practice, they formed a quick succession of gestures, while old words of arcane came out like a litany even as the attacker snaked towards her like lightning. Before the enemy could strike a blow, however, the spell took effect, and the assassin was slammed into the ceiling as if it had fallen. Delado's magic quickly held her fast, as if by a giant hand.

"I am sorry to hear that I have been a nuisance to your masters." she snapped tersely. "Your masters should in turn know that I will not fall by such petty attacks, and that I will not rest until their cancer is purged from Dalaran!" Blunt she had been, blunt she would always be. Never would she hide anything of her loyalties and intentions.

"They said you were strong. But I did not think your surname of 'Thunderhand' meant this much. My apologies for underestimating you. I will not do so again." The assassin hissed.

"No, you won't. Since I will eliminate you after tearing your knowledge from your mind." Delado replied coldly. The assassin only chuckled in a strange tone.

"It does remind me of things. But not this time. And not this way. My fate will not be ended here, Mistress Delado. Look forward to our next meeting." With that, a silvery globe appeared in her hand, and flashed brightly. At once, she dropped to the floor, crouching.

A moment of surprise, of panic, surged in Delado's mind at the sight. 'That device was custom-made, definitely by one very gifted!' she told herself. But the moment faded as quickly as it had come, and mystical energy gathered in the spellcaster's hand. 'But no magical item can withstand a full barrage of mystical might forever.'

"One day, Mistress." The assassin grunted, and took off her grey glove, revealing a scarred hand and a magical bracelet. It flashed, spreading to her, and before Rena could do anything to contain or trace the energy, she had vanished. Her presence was gone, and the archwizardess knew the danger had passed. This time.

She had been born in Cross Island, been raised by mages, had trained to be one, trained others, and come to a high understanding of the arcane world. She knew that such items as the ones the assassin had used were by no means common, and that in fact only a few could have made them. It narrowed the list of suspects in that instance, and also pointed out to the fears she, her beloved Khadgar, Antonidas and some others had: that members of the Kirin Tor itself were involved in whatever was destabilizing the magocratic nation.

She looked at her hands. They had been wounded, but nothing one of the healing ointments she had wouldn't cure. She had emerged from the assassination attempt remarkably unscathed. 'Perhaps too much.' she mused 'That one was very skilled. She could have wounded me at the beginning, and struck before I could recover from the shock. She talked too much, however, that was certain.'

"So, the game is afoot, as some would say." She muttered. It was no matter. She had been readying herself for that. Quickly, she made her way to check up on her prone assistant. "Next time, the move may come from us."

She would make certain of that, if she could. Rena Delado had been known for many things, and the foremost was that she was one of the bluntest, most thorough, most stubborn wizardess in all of Dalaran.

* * *

Late Summer 606, Cross Island, Dalaran

Crackling purplish energy surged forth from the lady archmage's fingers, and the assassin that the Kirin Tor had taken to calling the Grey Cloak grunted in pain as she knelt on the floor. No more, however, was uttered. Darajan Silentgreen had once heard that the Cloak had once been subjected to such tortures that little seemed to truly hurt or trouble her anymore.

Still, even though the assassin deserved such punishment for being derelict in her given mission, the elf wizard could not repress a slender frown of distaste at seeing the pain involved in it.

It was, by elven standards, quite barbaric really.

"Really, is this truly interesting, Mistress Shadowbound?" he inquired as he looked out from window nearby. Shielded magically, no one could see what would happen inside, but it gave a fine view of the exterior. Silentgreen saw the curving paths, the grass and trees, and found himself wishing he was walking among the beauty of the park surrounding his tower than being in a discussion with one of the most extreme of his fellow conspirators.

"She is my assassin and tool, Master Silentgreen." came the answer. "And, as such, what I do with her is solely my own affair."

"There is truth in that." he admitted. "But I do have my people's penchant for disliking unnecessary brutality. If you wish to punish this subordinate, you will have to do so at another location than my home.

Shadowbound's dark cowl swept in his direction, and the elf could feel the unseen eyes boring angrily into him, and stifled unease with an effort. To attack him in his own tower, where the spells were arranged to help him, where he was at a distinct advantage, was unwise, and he did not believe the mysterious spellcaster would do so. Still, he quickly went through what defensive and offensive spells he knew, preparing for an attack without appearing to do so.

His guess was the right one, but he felt relieved when he saw Shadowbound curtly turn back to her tortured charge.

"You have failed me. Do so too often and I will stop having a use for you. Remember what you would be without me, and what you will be if ever I abandon you." she said scathingly. "Now, begone, until I summon you once more!"

"Mistress, as you command." The Cloak said, and vanished from the chamber. It did not seem to be bothered by the idea of harm or death, which in turn unnerved everything elven in Silentgreen.

"Are all elves from Quel'Thalas so soft-hearted?" Shadowbound asked with a hint of disdain. "It is a wonder your people resisted the Horde at all."

"We high elves value life. For its defence, we will fight mightily. Torture is a waste, and untimely death a sacrilege. Of this I will say not more, nor do I expect one such as you to understand the elven philosophy. It is for this philosophy that I have joined this traitorous cabal, and for no other reason."

This seemed to amuse the other mage. Silentgreen once again found himself irritated by the way that the one named Shadowbound had managed to become opaque to every possible scrying spell. It made for a useful deterrent if ever meeting mages of the opposing faction - but it did not stir much trust among the ones who'd begun the group which had evolved into the League of Dusk. Once again, seeing the violence, distrust and mistrust he was surrounded with, he wondered if he hadn't made a great mistake in taking up that cause.

'No. I had no choice on the matter.' he decided. 'The elves of Silvermoon and the humans of Dalaran have evolved magic to unprecedented levels, while managing to keep us safe from corrupting powers. If only they could see that they are beginning to stagnate out of fear!' Because of that very fear, magical research had been slowed in all academies, the seminars had become redundant, and shortsighted individuals who jumped at every shadow bogged down far too many avenues.

The more Silentgreen thought about it, the more ironic it seemed. The first high elves had been, according to the ancient histories, outcast from the first elven civilization for refusing to abandon magic, and had created a realm under the most powerful of the exiled families.

But over time, their fear to attract undue attention had atrophied magical research. Silentgreen had long supposed that the weakened potential of elven mages had made Quel'Thalas' army too weak to fight the trolls, forcing Silvermoon to make its first deals with the humans.

So doing, it gave humanity some magical knowledge that it expanded upon - creating the Violet Ciadel and surrounding Cross Island, a city as wondrous as any elven city ever built. But even human potential was being shunted now, canalized and narrowed. What a waste. What blindness.

And the Kirin Tor was thinking of banning research about necromancy and summoning altogether. Foolish. But the violence it would mean...

"Speaking of the Horde, I have heard interesting news." he mused to change the subject and quell his doubts, walking to a small cabinet, which opened at a softly spoken word. He took out a bottle of good Silverean red wine and poured it into a glass. "I heard that the Horde has broken through Lord Khadgar's spells. The Portal's active again."

The moment of hesitation was very brief - the merest of pause as Shadowbound paced - but it told the elf that the brooding, mysterious woman had been surprised. It was oddly comforting to see that fact to him. 'She always seems to know everything there is to know, but this piece of information did slip by her.' he thought with grim satisfaction.

"So the Horde is coming again. In force?" she asked, her tone calm and composed. Whatever surprise she had felt wasn't betrayed in her voice.

"Hard to say. But we can't discount the possibility that it might. In which case..." he began.

"In which case, we can work this to our advantage. This will certainly draw Khadgar away, and we can probably get rid of that annoying Delado as well." she said, seemingly relishing having the blunt, fiery wizardess unable to influence the Kirin Tor. "It would allow us to eliminate much of Antonidas' support at the higher ruling councils."

"Old Antonidas will not give in without a fight if we attempt to truly wrestle control away from the old order." He warned.

"Come now, my good elf lord." Shadowbound's voice sounded amused now. "Why would we act so precipitously when we have so well orchestrated our moves while escaping scrutiny? First the drafting of Dalaran into the Alliance, with us forcing Terenas to allow Dalaran to have independence over arcane matters. Then using that fool man Duraz to test the grounds for us while we watched him blunder. Over a decade of fine preparations. No, my friend, there is no cause for concern."

"That arrogance may cost you. Khadgar knows, and he's both undeniably powerful in both wits and spells." He shook his head. There was nothing more dangerous than overblown self-confidence.

"Which is why the Horde will be more useful than anything else to us. If the Portal is open now, the armies will certainly fight hard enough. That will keep all attention focused far down south. And leave the north ripe for us." The cloaked, female-voiced spellcaster leaned against the fine stone wall. "Besides, we have prepared certain insurances in case the meddlers become too tiresome."

"I will not allow bloodshed. Magic has gone thing enough without wasting what remains of the with enough potential to use it."

"My friend, we are very near to finding that which we all want. Once we have that, even all of the Alliance combined will have no choice but to bow to our will."

Silentgreen's blood quickened at the mere evocation of their dream. It was something he could not resist. After thousands of years of failures and half-hearted attempts and limited rewards, magic would again become the force it had once been and was meant to be. But for that, they would need one thing, which had long been kept secret by the leader of the Kirin Tor and the High Mage of Silvermoon.

"Once it is ours..." he mused, not hearing the sheer longing in his voice.

"Yes, elf lord. Once we have that power that they created long ago, no one in this world will be able to stand against the will and potential of our League."

* * *

Late Summer 606, Dark Portal, Languishing Fields

Thirty thousand. That was the number.

Orcs. Ogres, the few trolls who had not abandoned the Horde, and some crafty goblins besides. Forty thousand troops to take back through the Portal to once again do battle against the humans and their allies. Spirits were high, and celebrations had rung when the troops had finally been assembled. Kilrogg Deadeye saw it all.

And the only word that came to his mind was: foolish.

'Most of these grunts haven't battled the humans, and they think they'll sweep the pinkskins easily?' he wondered in disgust as he saw the unruly grouping of warriors. 'Such a lack of discipline. Hellscream's lot? Bah. The Warsong Clan doesn't amount to much more than bloated, naive fools.'

"It is not supposed to win the entire continent for us, that army." Ner'Zul had mused when Deadeyes had raised strong objections. "But they will be enough to gain the artifacts that I need for the Horde to become the power which will rule everything."

"You'll see, old one, that the Warsong Clan will put fear of the Beyond in their heart!" Hellscream had chuckled, his eyes gleaming; possibly seeing the swift fall of Nethergarde and the human lands beyond.

"Don't be a fool. You're a chieftain, but you have no idea of what you're about to face! Don't charge in blindly like some hapless peon!" Deadeyes had growled. In retrospect, it hadn't been the right thing to say, but the aged warrior had been too frustrated and annoyed by the younger orc's naiveté to bother choosing his words better.

The result was one he expected the moment the words came out of his mouth, ad Hellscream's blade came to rest on his throat menacingly. The younger orc looked furious, his eyes red and his teeth grinding hard together. It was a total abandon to the bloodlust, and at that moment Deadeye knew what Hellscream was to Shadowmoon: fodder, lambs for the slaughter as the humans said rather well.

"Are you saying that I can't defeat the humans?" The young chieftain naively challenged. Despite the dangers, the old Deadeye lost his own temper.

"Oh yes, I think so! A young fool like you! You think you can succeed where Blackhand, Doomhammer and Grimfrost have failed?" he nearly laughed out loud "You ignorant orcling! You think the humans have no leaders of their own! I hope you meet their Minvare, their Lightbringer, their Swiftblade! Then, if you don't make a complete failure out of your foolish little Clan and yourself, come back and tell me of victory!"

Hellscream was so overcome with rage that, for moment, his arm trembled. Taking advantage of that moment of weakness - since when did Deadeye consider the bloodlust a weakness -, the old orc swatted the blade aside, and took hold of his own axe. A twisted grin formed on Hellscream's features, and things would certainly have gone to a bloody battle, if a huge ogre hadn't come in and separated them. Even for an Ogre, that one - painted on his body with black Shadowmoon sigils and symbols - was larger than most. Of all ogres, actually, only Cho'Gall had been larger to Deadeye's sight.

"You two obey Shadowmoon's chieftain!" The ogre had growled then from its left head, before the right picked the thought up. "Or I smash you! You get?" One huge fist tightened, while another crackled with rough magic. 'What? One of Gul'Dan's Ogre-Magi? With Ner'Zhul?' He saw that the elder shaman had not budged an inch, but had rather looked at the scene from afar, eyes gauging from behind the skull-shaped white face paint. 'So you were expecting even this much to happen, didn't you? But Gul'Dan, too, once controlled everything around him...'

"Thank you, Dentarg. But I think that you won't need to hit chieftains such as they. I think that they understand, by now."

'Oh, I understand. I understand that you're as manipulative as Gul'Dan. I can see why he was your pupil.' Deadeye thought grimly. 'You probably can't tell a genuine truth to save your life, you old, fallen relic.' He saw that Hellscream was giving him a hateful look. 'And now, just by explaining your plan, you've made sure we wouldn't unite to confront them.'

"Deadeye, your prowess and wisdom are not challenged." the shaman said smoothly "But Hellscream will command the invasion and insure I have what I need. Take that time to rest. You deserve it."

In short, he had been relegated to the unimportant role of observer as a large part of the Warsong and Thunderlord Clans put the invasion force together. From what he overheard, Deadeye guessed that most expected a swift, complete victory over the humans.

They had expected it, too, under Doomhammer. He could still remember the sight of Grimfrost's massive, well-trained Shadow Army. How it had cut through the human lands and almost brought the Horde complete victory. The thirty thousand he saw were good warriors, but was a small puddle next to a lake if compared to Grimfrost's masterful array of mighty.

Invasion? He doubted that force would last even one year against the Alliance.

And, worst of all, he doubted Hellscream would ever open his eyes and see he was never anything more than a pawn. That his beloved Clan was no more than a tool. For a moment, pity gripped Deadeye in the midst of bitterness as he watched Ner'Zhul take his place at the foot of the Portal's rebuilt archway. It didn't yet glow as it once had, but it was getting stronger even as they all watched.

"My people! The humans think that they have defeated us! But no one in this existence can defeat us! No one!" he shouted, and the thirty thousand orcs and ogres roared in ecstasy. Beside the shaman, Hellscream looked ready to hack the entire Alliance by himself. 'I can see where this is leading, and I can't stop it.' he realized with resigned horror.

Overhead, massive wings unfurled, and beat as great, black shapes flew in the sky, garnering the awe and fear of those underneath. At the moment, Ner'Zhul's staff glowed a purplish colour, and the portal blazed back to life. The Horde troops roared in joyous abandon, chanting the shaman's name wildly. It was a perfectly orchestrated scene.

Thirty thousand troops to assail an entire continent.

"How foolish!" Deadeye growled even as the first orcs began to cross the barrier between the two worlds.

* * *

Late Summer 606, Nethergarde Keep, Black Morass

He could see it in the distance. The rift that had once been the Portal suddenly blazed to life, an insignificant speck to his eye while it shook his soul. It was a sight that Aerth Swiftblade had known he would behold, a sight he'd been ready for. Or so he had thought.

"So, it begins once more." The general. He sighed and then turned from the battlements to issue orders to the archers and ballista crews. He no longer had time for regrets or apprehension.

Once more, the peace had shattered. A Third War, maybe. Only one thing remained certain: the orcs would not pass Nethergarde without a crippling, bitter, merciless fight.

* * *

THE ORC INTERNMENT CAMPS

As the last of the Horde's armies fled into Dreanor, into the wildlands, or fell to the Alliance, tens of thousands of orcs were captured by the human nations. Bitter discussion raged for many weeks, with one side of the Alliance Nations arguing for imprisonments while the other arguing for complete elimination. Eventually, the matter was brought to a vote, and Lordaeron gained support from Azeroth, Dalaran, Kul Tiras and the grudging votes of Khaz Modan and Quel'Thalas for internments, forcing dissident Gilneas and Stromgarde to accept the decision.

The orcs were quickly gathered into immense, well-guarded enclaves where the orcish prisoners toiled the land and did menial work. Aside from early clashes with the guard, most of the internment camps, completed in 602, have known a certain peace even as many orcs showed a lessening aggression. Despite the encouraging news that many orcs may be becoming more peaceful, the resources and gold needed to maintain such guarded enclaves has sparked many political confrontations, and has served to fracture the strained camaraderie between Alliance rulers.


	3. Chapter Two: Old and New

**Chapter Two : Old and New**

Late Summer 606, Nethergarde Keep, Wildlands

Thousands of orcs had poured from the Dark Portal. Twenty-five to thirty thousands in the matter of four days. The scouting parties - largely elven, but with swift humans mingled in - had been certain of these numbers, and after hearing it repeated many times, Swiftblade had seen no reason to doubt their word. He couldn't afford it, at any rate.

He had felt aghast about the news, although he took pains not to show it. Having gathered every able-bodied soldier and militia in the region, he counted less than three thousand in the keep proper. It had been designed for as much as four thousand, and he had no fears as to immediate food concerns. What 'did' concern him, however, was the matter of holding the besieging force off.

He didn't know who led the enemy force as a whole, but he had, from scout reports and from what he had seen, make some observations for himself. The enemy moved efficiently, with Ogres being used to keep some of the rowdier units in line. This marked the enemy commander as having a good level of discipline in his forces. This would not be a monstrous rabble, like the large but extremely predictable force Swiftblade had outwitted against expectations at Zul'Dare nearly fifteen summers earlier. This was a well-led army. The enemy commander had also separated his force into six camps of equal strength, with hastily built, evenly placed outposts between them. An effective encerclement.

A solid commander, yet Swiftblade had noted two other points which were of note to him. First, that the enemy had nearly closed enough to archer shooting range. Remembering that, in the First War, the orcish spearmen used then had a shorter reach than human bolts and arrows, it told the general that the enemy had no knowledge of the range. It either meant that the enemy was unintelligent - something Swiftblade rejected - or simply did not have any experience of fighting forces from the Alliance.

And then there was this swiftness. The men appeared to have been somewhat pushed, rushed, into some places, where some more care should have been given. This meant that the enemy was not only impulsive, but also impatient. A trait Swiftblade knew well, had always had to control. Something he might be able to use to his own advantage.

But the real surprise had just come mere moments before, and even the assembled veterans felt shocked. Commander Hollenz, who had commanded the Keep for the last two years, was the most vocal about his thoughts.

"What kind of daft report is that?" he said, tugging on the lace of his uniform. "You're telling us that the enemy has split his forces?"

"Yes, milord." The scout was elven, and had trouble restraining his haughty talassian look as he stood by his words. "I swear by the Queen and the Sunwell that the Horde army has broken off. Less than half their forces now encircle us. The other half is going north, deeper into the Wildlands."

"That's nonsense. Sheer nonsense. What are they trying to accomplish with this?" Hollenz muttered, unnerved by both the elf and the news.

"Maybe they were sent to reinforce the Dragonmaws at Grim Batol. If they have those, with the dragons they retain, they might be able to be a danger to us." An older captain, whose name escaped Swiftblade entirely, commented. The general, for his part, simply leaned back. He had understood something with that statement, and it lifted some weight off of his shoulders.

They saw it. Some of the officers seemed puzzled by his sudden relaxation, including the relatively overwhelmed Hollenz. Even Poorglade looked rather puzzled. He shrugged at their looks.

"This is all good news. I'm rather relieved, I think." he mused. This caused something of a stir amongst the hastily assembled officers.

"General, if I may ask, how is that knowledge good news?" Hollenz asked.

"Because there is the fact that no more troops are coming out of that cursed Portal, and that they've divided what they have. I began by thinking this was the vanguard of a new invasion. The Second War starting anew." Swiftblade mused, putting his gloved back on. He'd heard enough. Now was the time for work. An army was surrounding them, and there was no more time for its commanding officers to keep the garrison without firm command.

"But if there's no more coming through, and if they have cut the force here nearly in half, it means its a foray." he stated "Not an invasion. There might be many reasons for that, and I'm certain we'll find out to our displeasure. But at least we can deal with those numbers. An invasion force like the Second War's Horde was? Very unlikely. This meeting is over."

They had no choice but to obey his orders. Swiftblade had never been one for long, tedious meetings with his former officers, and had no wish to be lengthier with these - for the most part - unknown men. The guards opened the door and saluted, and the general led a confused but vaguely determined procession out.

It took no time at all for him to see that something was astir. Men were moving quickly in the corridors of the main keep, Clutching bows, crossbows, spears - whatever could be thrown at the enemy effectively. With a gesture, he curtly stopped a soldier in his tracks.

"Ho, there, boy! What happens?" The young man - a recruit, sixteen if lucky - seemed to gape at the purple cape, the sign of a General, and stammered something. "Easy, son! Just tell me what happens. Quickly!" He felt a bit foolish about contradictorily calming and commanding the youth, yet he needed information quickly.

"G-greenskins." the boy babbled "Th'greenskins 're attackin', m'lord!" the young soldier finally let out in a rush.

"What?" Swiftblade cried, flabbergasted. Seeing "But that's simply-!" seeing the he was glaring at the poor boy, who had gone pale, he waved the young man away. "Thank you, son. Go to your assigned post."

The poor soldier fairly ran. Swiftblade felt an instant of pity. But only an instant. Other concerns drowned it as he looked at the assembled men. Five officers and himself. Perfect. A defence plan formed. He hadn't laid anything yet, thinking that the enemy would rest before storming the walls. 'That commander of their is rash, truly. But in this case it worked against me.' he admonished himself bitterly. Had years of relative peace made him so lax?

"They're coming now. This is earlier than I expected, so I'll have to lay my plans quickly. We have about twenty-eight hundred soldiers here, so we will divide them into seven groups. Six groups of four hundred and fifty each will defend the walls themselves, commanded by one of us. Two hundred armed for archery, with one hundred swords and one hundred fifty pikes. Each of us will take a mage and two priest to aid us, as well as errand scouts for messages."

"I will command the first group, North Batallion. Hollenz will command South Batallion. Captain Poorglade will lead Northeast Battalion, while you sir here, will command Northwest. You two gentlemen will command Southeast and Southwest respectively. Hollenz will command the southern defences, I command the northern ones." he thought quickly.

"The last group will be Centre Battalion. Four hundred men, armed with swords only, for increased swiftness. It will have to be constantly reinforcing the other groups so, commander Hollenz, a want you to put the meanest, most daring and most rash of your lieutenants in charge, a temporary captaincy. Just one thing for him: patch the holes in the lines." he finished, breathless. The other officers looked rather rushed with the whole thing, but it would have to do. "From then on, fight independently until your receive changing orders from either myself or the commander. Is that understood, gentlemen?"

They did not seem to have digested everything, but they answered a stout 'Yes, general!' He nodded.

"Then go. They've caught us by surprise, but they must be tired from the preparations and march. We'll turn them back this time and whenever they attack afterwards! Go!" He gestured quickly, and turned, bellowing for his aid, and for passing soldiers to bring a formation together quickly. Behind him, he heard the others shouting similarly. The defence was quickly taking shape.

And then he forgot them, concentrated only in forming his battalion, of quickly forming lines. He thought of supplying arrows, supplying food from the interior of the keep. He thought of attacks and defences, of strategies and tactics, even as he ran where he wished to go.

Caught him by surprise, that Horde leader had. Quite well, at that.

"We'll, see, sir, we'll see." he snapped, "This Swiftblade isn't done yet, by the Light!"

* * *

Late Summer 606, Edge of the Black Morass, Wildlands

Grom Hellscream had been born and bred to fight. Not to negotiate. Although he was considered intelligent and wise, when it suited him, he also had problems seeing things beyond the simple, practical views of the battlefield.

So, when he'd heard that Argal Grimfrost had made a clan - was it the Dire Fangs? - and even some lands in some parts the pinkskins and their allies hadn't bothered with. He had sent the former warlord a messenger, who had been forced by a Dire Fang patrol to relinquish said message and return home.

It had angered the chieftain badly. Not only had Grimfrost abandoned the Horde when he was needed - or so it went in some circles - but also he'd seemingly convinced his troops to lay down their arms and work the land. 'Work the land!' Hellscream thought with disgust. 'That's work for some peons, not for elite grunts!'

The anger had become far worse when a reply had been received. Grimfrost accepted to talk with Hellscream, but not in the Dust Crags. Rather, the former warlord had selected a place that those veterans who'd come with him recognized. Angry at the older orc's manner, he'd had no real choice but to agree to the demand, damningly irritating thought it was.

"Treating us like some peons or some, some failed grunts!" he muttered loud enough as he and some advisors rode their wolves to the designated place. He shook his fist at the air a moment, and ground his upper teeth against one tusk. It was how he sometimes acted when under bloodlust or anger, and none of the surrounding orcs missed it.

"That's very true, chieftain." One of the orcs said diffidently and very carefully. "But Grimfrost is still very popular, and if we damned him, the troops..."

"He's more than popular, by the Beyond!" another growled right back. "That stupid old orc's been fighting battles so long, he's becoming a legend in the younger grunts."

"It doesn't matter, I think!" Yet a third one shouted, "We'll take what we want from these traitors, and if they refuse, we'll make them cry like a fool female or an orcling!"

Hellscream didn't bother to participate in the bickering, but he found he agreed strongly with the third option, while having to acknowledge the first two. Grimfrost had been one of the most efficient leaders in the Horde, and that wasn't something an orc reached easily. His ever-boiling blood spurred him for battle, but the part of him that made the Warsong follow his lead reminded him that he had earned respect on the battlefield not only through his strangely calm manner, but also through sheer strength.

He would have to be careful with that orc. But Hellscream would have what he wanted. And if Grimfrost forced battle, he would be delighted to test the old orc!

"Chieftain, they are here!" one orc said, and sure enough as they all looked, a clump of orcs arrived on wolves of their own. Three only, to Hellscream's six. One, at the lead, was Grimfrost himself. The aged face and flowing grey-white air, the poise, the armour, everything made it certain. Another was an orc dressed simply, but wrapped in a cloak of some sort. A remaining warlock?

It was the third, however, which brought gasps to many lips. Seated on a great black wolf was an orc of tremendous size, with myriads of battle scars on his skin and repaired damage on his armour. At his back was an axe only Ogres could lift and use. Every orc knew whom it was, and suddenly the two-to-one advantage didn't make a possible battle so certain for Hellscream.

"Kerak, here? So the rumours are true..." he mused. He still found it hard to believe that a champion as great as Kerak Fadeburn could help found a colony 'away' from conflict and not go insane from the inaction, but the living proof was laid before his very eyes.

"Greetings, Argal Grimfrost, Chieftain of the Dire Fang Clan!" he called, approaching the other group. He meant it as friendly as possible, but couldn't help but stumble over the chieftain title. It did not appear to bother the older orc in the least. Unbearably calm that, one. But then, he realized, all three seemed calm. Even Kerak, whom Hellscream had known as a bloodthirsty, action-craving grunt.

"And I greet you, Grom Hellscream, Chieftain of the Warsong Clan. What do you want?" the elder orc said coolly. His voice seemed to disdain Hellscream's whole group. Two of the younger chieftain's people growled, but didn't dare bring Kerak's possible wrath on them. Realizing this despite his rising ire, the leader of Warsong Clan pushed on.

"I want your warriors to join mine in carrying out tasks for the Horde!" he said empathically "I've left part of my forces to deal with the pink-skinned fools at that fortress, so I'll need more troops while they're gone!" he grinned ferally.

"No. My warriors won't be part of more Horde stupidity. If that will be all, goodbye." Grimfrost said as icily as his name.

For a moment, Hellscream could only gape at the straight and unrelentingly stern answer. And then fury began to take hold of him. He had never been good at keeping the rage and bloodlust away, and it began consuming him once more. He threateningly edged his mount forward, his hand edging towards his long-bladed pole.

"You refuse? You DARE refuse the Horde?" he growled.

"Yes." came the cool answer. Grimfrost seemed unimpressed, which only infuriated Hellscream more. "I care about the clans, but not the Horde. The Horde's a disease which is killing us all."

"YOU COWARD!"

"Perhaps, Hellscream. But it's far better than being a pawn for the Great Dark Beyond, or for Ner'Zul." Grimfrost mused. "I've heard of your forces at Nethergarde. You moved them well, but your orders are too rash and demanding.

"This unrelenting assault might force some to break." he actually gave Hellscream a pitying stare. "But 'that' human leads them now, which makes your optimistic strategy foolish. You have much to learn. But I don't want to waste my people while you fumble like a fool."

That was too much for the Warsong chieftain. Not only had Grimfrost offhandedly condemned the Horde and refused to help in any way, he was heaping ridicule on his people. That was a stain on the Warsong Clan's honour that Hellscream was incapable of taking. He took his pole out and, with the bloodlust surging through him, he charged with a tremendous yell.

He didn't get to Grimfrost.

Acting with frightening speed and strength, Kerak had moved forward and swept his enormous axe in an arc, neatly cutting Hellscream's mount's head off. The headless body staggered and fell in a heap, throwing the furious orc to the ground. Hellscream could no longer see much except the red-rimmed tunnel of his vision, and he surged to his feet, facing Kerak, who calmly faced him.

"Enough, Hellscream." he warned "Or I'll sweep of your head next!"

For a moment, Hellscream almost risked death. Then a though occurred. 'What are the others doing?' Giving them a look, he saw their angry forms held back by the cloaked orc, as if movement had been made impossible. 'A magic-user, eh?' He could try to break the spellcaster's concentration, but that meant going through Kerak and the nearby Grimfrost. Despite his rage, a part of him was sane enough to see he would never live through a fight against the two.

"Coward! Grimfrost! Fight me yourself! I challenge you!" he said in his rage. The older orc seemed pensive, but nodded.

"And I accept it. Next we meet, if you still wish that, we will fight. But for now, I won't allow your people entry into our lands. Find your own path, and see its foolishness. The hard way, like I did. Good health, chieftain." With that, the three turned their mounts and left the seething Hellscream.

Eventually, his people were released after the trio had disappeared over the moist landscape, but when they seemed ready to go charge at the group, he stopped them. The bloodlust had receded, and his anger was tempered once again.

"Don't follow them. It's useless. They know the terrain better than we do, and they have a damned warlock of some kind with them." he growled. "The Beyond take them! We'll have victory for the Horde without those weak-willed fools."

He was certain of that. Absolutely, faithfully certain. He would not fail his clan or his honour, no matter how many legendary figures said otherwise!

* * *

Late Summer 606, Near Nethergarde Keep, Wildlands

Nerves were raw, and tempers high. There was no helping it, Turalyon knew, when one had to watch allies being attacked relentlessly over the course of six days. It worked at fraying the increasingly fragile links between the Alliance nations and, mostly, between the humans and the elves.

Ever since the end of the Second War, Quel'Thalas had distanced itself increasingly from any affairs but its own, a decision made all the more bitter by some resentment the elves had come to feel. To the elves, the humans had not acted strongly enough, had not sacrificed enough, when Quel'Thalas had been savagely attacked. It had not endeared them to many of the surrounding human nations, which were quick to point out that it was thanks to human leaders that the elves were saved at all.

Although Queen Pureglade was known as a good, sensible ruler, she could not silence the large fraction of the Great Elven Houses that made up the Council of Silvermoon. And so, year after year, the elves retreated back to their lands, their help harder to come, their recriminations loud.

The fact that Nethergarde was garrisoned mainly with humans and some dwarves hadn't helped. With very few elves in the keep, the elves had been rather complacent about the keep's possible fall. The worst of it had come when one elf ranger had haughtily stated that human losses would be minimal, since humans would replenish their numbers easily through abominably fast breeding. Had Alleria not scathingly reprimanded the ranger, Turalyon was uncertain he would have been able to prevent a fight between the elven and human soldiers over the slight.

This frustrated the Paladin, although he controlled himself. 'What would Lothar have done?' he had asked himself, and it always seemed to him that the great knight would have kept all in line through sheer force of will. Once more, the Silver Hand knight felt insufficient to the task of holding the Alliance races together. 'High General, indeed!' he told himself mournfully, angrily 'All I can do is watch as Swiftblade and his men slowly get themselves killed!'

"Ah. You're being too hard on yourself, Lord Turalyon. Again." Said the former Ranger-General as she came to watch with him the battle. From the distance, smoke rendered the features blurry, but the roar and noise, the clash of steel, the screams of the dying and the blasting of stone and wood, it all came to them eerily. Even there, under the humid, uncomfortably warm canopy of the rotting Black Morass trees.

"Do I? Am I so very easy to read?" he sighed, but any heat he wanted to put in was utterly lost.

"Yes." She answered simply. "You are a fine warrior, but a diplomat you are not. You can't hide your feelings from matters." she pointed to the fortress. "They are still holding. Swiftblade's work, and the fact that many veteran fighters are there. But it won't hold forever without aid, and because you don't have that aid at the moment, you feel you are at fault."

He shook his head. He didn't want to go into his doubts about his own worth. Instead he chose another subject. "Will Danath's army reach us soon? We need to even the field, or this situation will degenerate quickly." She frowned at that, not fooled by the unsubtle direction, yet Turalyon knew she was too dutiful to press the issue. Among the elves, she was a rarity of pragmatism.

"Yes. He'll reach us in two days. It should be fine. The fortress can hold that long. But his army is a patchwork of militia, retirees and younglings, added to some knight and footmen units here and there." she mused, "Discipline is hard to maintain, it seems, although he's managed thus far."

"Danath has experience, with the orc encampments he's overseeing, in keeping people in line. How many?"

"All told? Three, perhaps four thousands at the most." she replied. She spotted his look again. "Still, the Alliance nations are mobilizing. They're sending everything they can spare to us, even the Council didn't want to appear cowardly." her bitterness towards the Council was biting "Even Gilneas is sending a two-thousand strong contingent. And I have better news yet: the Wildhammers are sending thirty gryphons riders to us. They should be here in four days."

Turalyon digested all of that quietly, the military part of his mind taking over. The people at Nethergarde, he was certain - almost certain - would hold a few more days. Both sides were clearly exhausted from the constant fighting. Danath's army, although rabble-like, could held things, and a wise use of the gryphons - especially since the Horde had no dragons with them - could balance things enough to force the orcs to retire from the field.

"We don't need to win this. Only survive it. If we can weather this, we have a chance." he mused aloud.

"At least you're not moping around, anymore." she quipped, surprising him. "That's good. We don't need a moping High General."

He almost grinned. "No, I don't suppose so." he was about to add something else, when a crash and a roar diverted his attention. Below them, a human and elf soldiers were coming to actual blows, while some others were throwing accusations left and right. He exchanged grim looks with the elven woman, and they both quickly made their way to the altercation.

Turalyon had been a knight before he had been a paladin, and his martial training still remained as important to him as his devotion to the Holy Light. He knew that words wouldn't stop the fight, now that it had degenerated into something physical. And so, he used the methods he had used ever since he had first been an officer.

Quickly stepping between the two, he sent a sharp, boot foot to the elf's shins, followed swiftly by an elbow to the human's torso. As both reacted to the new attacks in surprise and pain, he took hold of them both and, while they were still in such a state, pushed them away with all of his strength.

They fell, being partially caught by their own race. The racial division only made Turalyon's irritation greater, and only his personal code as a Paladin kept him from shouting.

"Have you all gotten leave of your senses?" he growled. Farther away, the battle continued, unabated. "While our people fight for their lives, you fight for mockeries and foul jests? This is pure foolishness, especially coming from knights and rangers!"

"But, milord, these elves think that-" The human who had been fighting protested wheezing. Turalyon had to fight back the urge to hit the man again. The elf only glared haughtily, a glare that found itself faced with that of Alleria's, and quickly overpowered.

"I have no intention of knowing the 'reason'." The Paladin snapped, "The reason for foolishness doesn't make an action any less foolish. Now, you know that Sir Danath is bringing an army here, an army with which we might be able to lift the siege. But meanwhile, make yourselves of use by observing the enemy. Take its measure, seek weaknesses in the way they attack Nethergarde. Don't fight in the dirt like naive children! I forbid it!"

He was acutely aware he sounded like he was chastising children. He didn't really care about that, however. That was how the entire situation felt. Human tempers and elven arrogance were reaching a peak, and he had to make it stop. This time, it seemed, it worked, but both humans and elves left in their separate groups.

Six years. Only six years since the Horde had been dealt what had seemed to be a crippling blow. And already the Alliance was beginning to fail. The immediate danger had gone, and with that the forced camaraderie which had united the humans, the dwarves, the elves and the gnomes for the first time in history.

Now, human nations were being secretive, increasingly corrupt. The gnomes were caught up in something they wouldn't tell anyone else, and the elves were being distant and aloof again. Only the dwarves seemed committed yet. Lothar's vision was fast losing its potency. Turalyon only hoped it held long enough to prevent another catastrophic war.

"Two more days, Lady Alleria." he mused as he watched the groups reluctantly go their own way. "And yet it will feel like two whole years, I'm certain."

"Don't worry. Even my stubborn people can see when their own future is on the line." The elven woman assured him stoutly.

He believed her.

Mostly.

* * *

Late Summer 606, Redridge Mountains, Azeroth

It was always painful to see suffering, and there was much suffering to be seen lately. Not that there had been less suffering when the war had been on, but it seemed that the violence of war seemed less... frightful... than the despair of this enforced peace. The Horde had been broken and, with this, the orcs as a race.

One would say that the orcs brought it upon themselves. Up to a point, one would be right. The Horde had certainly not given the humans any cause to be generous or merciful with what remained of it, so the internment camps were unsurprising in their severity and ruthlessness. Still, did the peons, the females and the orclings deserve a similar fate? Many humans did not seem to see a difference between an orc warrior and one who was not.

Most orcs reacted to that injustice with either anger, by attacking the camps. These were usually killed or maimed, as the encampment walls could defend from what was without as well as within. Others reacted to it with bleak despair. These refused to do much, and slowly accepted to waste away.

Gelmar Thornfeet, however, had survived too many personal ordeals to choose either option. Anger only made things worse for the internment camps, and despair served no purpose at all. The Shaman had thus taken it upon himself to maintain some hope and dignity among the orc people. Abandoned by most of their allies, he found they truly needed such help.

His own works were bearing fruit, modestly as they might seem. The Hidden Valley had grown to a population of well over eight hundred orcs. Among these, at least thirty were now shamans versed enough in the mysteries of the spirits as to not even need his advice. They still sought it, which pleased him, but could now go their own way. It was with these trusted shamans, these former students of his, that Gelmar had hatched his plan.

"While we can't fight the Alliance right now, and we are too few to offer food and such,» he had told them. "What we 'can' do is offer spiritual aid. Our people's spirits are bereft. We will bring the warmth of the spiritual realm to them."

Looking back on that, it had seemed awfully idealistic, yet the old orc chose to persevere. There were always problems, but he had long ago decided that the spirits' way was not to be doubted, and that things would see themselves through if he only gave his best efforts. If that made an hopeless idealist out of him, and he felt it did, he accepted it.

The boy was there before he had blinked, looking at him from a nearby ridge. Gelmar blinked. The boy was human. From his face, he was in the phase between human childhood and adulthood, a rebellious phase. Still, there was something queer about the boy. Something about his clothing, his poise? Gelmar couldn't put his finger on what bothered him. Well, what bothered him aside from the fact that the boy was human, and that his presence meant older humans nearby.

Before he could react to the sight, the boy turned his head and exclaimed. "Nolgoor! There's an old orc over here!" he shouted.

'Nolgoor?' Gelmar wondered. 'That is an orc name, not a human one.' Whereas he simply would have left, the shaman decided to wait and see what would happen. If the boy truly brought belligerent humans, he'd simply use his spiritual and elemental magics to ward them off and escape.

Despite the fact that he half-expected it, it still stunned him when an orc quickly came to the young human's side and looked down as well. Gelmar was indeed so surprised that it took him a moment to realize that the orc was calling down to him.

"Oktar-Ogar, elder one. I greet you in friendship!" came the reply. It was cautious, but seemed genuine. Gelmar found his voice.

"Oktar-Ogar. I share it gladly!" he called back. Satisfied, the two walked down the rocks to him.

It wasn't long before they were talking, and that names were exchanged. Gelmar soon learned that the orc was indeed named Nolgoor, and the boy, the orc's charge was one Kelak, Kelak Fatebreaker. He was full of wonderment when he gazed at that boy: so orcish, but without the repressed bloodlust so many orcs showed. They knew his name, it seemed, from the way their eyes widened. The orc Nolgoor actually bowed his head.

"The Patriarch of the Hidden Valley." the orc muttered "We are honoured."

"Please. You have made me witness something I thought I'd never see." he replied quickly "I should be the one being glad." At that moment the boy, who had been watching all of this with interest, looked at his older orc warden with enthusiasm.

"I think he should meet with Father! Don't you, Nolgoor?" he asked brightly.

"Yes, I think you're right. Borkom would like to meet you, if you're willing." The orc replied.

He was more than willing. Quickly, they went by rocky passageways and hidden trails, until the shaman's head spun. Chosen and hidden with care, only the most stubborn hunter among the humans, and a skilled elf, could have followed.

They came to a small, hidden rocky plateau, where they were hailed by a sentinel and showed to a small cluster of tents. Three dozen or so orcs seemed to populate the camp, and Gelmar saw to his surprise that a sizeable fraction was female, and that all were hardened warriors. They all looked at the boy with a sort of bemused fondness, and Gelmar saw that this group had raised the human boy. In moments, he was shown before two orcs, a lean male and a dangerous-looking female, who seemed in charge of the group.

"Your are Gelmar Thornfeet, the rumoured hidden Shaman? I remember a Gelmar. He was a mediocre spellcaster, a small Necrolyte." The male challenged. "Are they one and the same?"

The male was more than met the eye. Knowledgeable, and dangerous. But with the poise and manner of a honourable blademaster. Gelmar felt no trap in the words, only a desire for precision. It was easy enough to answer.

"I have no intention of lying. I am a former Necrolyte. I was a weak necromancer, hardly able to cast spells correctly." he mused "And yet I am also the patriarch, and my spiritual magic is strong enough. We are one and the same. Things always change. And it was like that with me."

The orc female gave short laugh. "Well, you're honest, aren't you?" she grinned "Hard to believe that from a former necrolyte. But then I've seen - and done - stranger things." She gave the human boy a quick, fond look. The male nodded empathically.

"My dear mate is right. You sound and look honest, and I have a feeling you are." There was a baring of teeth. "I go with my instincts. They've served me well over the years. You're welcome to stay with us as long as you wish. We mainly eat bird meat and fish, and its light fare these days. But you are welcome."

Gelmar suddenly felt moved by the open-handed way the orcs of this camp were with others. It was different from most orcs, although it was beginning to be so in the Hidden Valley and in the Dust Crags's colony. The Shaman had a feeling that the human was the unwitting catalyst of all this. Could someone born free of the demonic influence living among them have sped this group's spiritual recovery? He had to know.

A human. Living and accepted by orcs. It moved his soul that something like this could even happen. It opened possibilities for the future.

"I'll be more than happy to stay here with your people for a time." he said. "You don't need to worry about the food. I can provide for myself, and perhaps help your people while I'm here. I only wish for something in exchange."

The orc frowned, suddenly tense. "We don't have much to offer."

"This is where you're wrong. Borkom, I think?" at the answering nod, he continued. "You have much to offer. Maybe not in goods, but in something far more precious. I want to see what causes this, to spread it to the rest of our people."

He looked at the human again, and smiled. He was joyous to see his grin returned. 'Oh yes, there IS something here. Something very precious, more than any army: pure souls.'

They called him an idealist? Let them. As far as Gelmar Thornfeet was concerned, it was something to feel proud of.

* * *

Late Summer 606, Nethergarde Keep, Wildlands

Poorglade's sword swept in one quick arc, nearly detaching the head of an orc grunt, and the orc fell backward, down into the masses. His arms were strained, but he persevered nonetheless. How many times had he swung that sword? How many orcs had he wounded or killed? Quite a few. Not enough.

He could help but grin when a spear killed one other climbing orc, before the ladder was pushed back at last, clearing the last of their areas from immediate assault. He looked around. He saw tired, bloody faces. Faces with deadly eyes, full of anger and hatred for the Horde. He felt complete sympathy for these men, who now all knew of the Horde and how terrible it could be.

"Well done, men!" He mused "Now, kill any orc still living on our walls, and throw their them and the other greenskin corpses over the wall!"

They obeyed without question, most of them. If some of the newly blooded had problems slitting a wounded orc's throat, many veterans had long since gone beyond caring for such moral qualms. They were in a siege, and this was a war.

They began throwing the bodies over the wall, when someone shouted something, pointing to the rear end of the battlefield. Many looked, others pointed, and some hefted spears and swords and whooped. After a moment and a good look to make certain, the second in command of Nethergarde felt like doing exactly the same.

Reinforcements had arrived at last. No horn had been sounded, probably to catch the Horde forces as off-balance as possible. They had come from the northwest, and hit hard, if in a somewhat undisciplined way. The orcs had had little time to prepare for the full assault, and many orcs and ogres visibly fell before a counter-offensive could be formed. On the flanks, knights were riding, preventing encirclement.

It was a matter of moments before Nethergarde's own horns sounded a special note, one prepared long ago and taught to the captains and commanders by Rellon Minvare, who had invented it. It's meaning was simple: full sortie. A risky thing to try, but at the rate things were going... Poorglade saw his own men had been battered to less than a third of their original numbers. They couldn't hold out for more than one or two days at any rate.

"Very well, you fools! Everyone who can swing a pike, a hammer, a sword, everyone who can swing something up close, come with me! We're joining the other units in a sortie!" He grabbed his sword and swung it up ward. "Archers, keep them occupied! Swordsmen, pikemen, axement, spearmen, with me!"

With his men, he began to lurch down to the main courtyard, where the booms of the ramming orcs were still heard at the main gates. Other units were gathering, and about twenty men were quickly looking at and prepping barded horses, while a force of dwarves and gnomes were preparing something at the gate itself. All of this reeked of something utterly risky, unorthodox and, if it went well, something that could give the orcs one good kick right where it hurt.

It just reeked of Swiftblade's style. Poorglade felt strangely elated.

The general was there, too, already mounted. The man's armour, more ornate than that of the other knights, would have been easy to see despite the torn purple cloak. Nicks, bents and blood messed the plate mail, and it seemed that there was a tired edge to Swiftblade's orders. In some way, it had always made the soldiers under that general more loyal than most others. More than even Turalyon or Minvare - who were superb leaders themselves if stories were true - Swiftblade took direct risks, and often led men themselves.

It was dangerous, even foolhardy from a strategic point of view, since the Alliance would risk losing on of their best leaders. But it also sealed the loyalty of the men. And Swiftblade had done so here, too. He could see it on faces; he could feel it in the air. He had held his ground once more, until help arrived. The men gathered there were ready to follow, gladly.

But it was not that which retained Poorglade's true attention. It was seeing a face he hadn't seen in many days. Hanse Dryfield, the enthusiastic recruit who'd been unnerving everyone with his bombast, was there, sword in hand, looking as dirty, as bloody and as tired as any of the others. He had bandages wrapped around one of his forearms, something many others had at some place or another.

"Hanse!" he called, grinning. The boy turned his head and looked at him, and the farmer's son's smile faltered. Those eyes were dimmer than he remembered, the face bleak and older than it had been only two tendays earlier. And yet these eyes nearly glowed with hatred. Hatred, he knew, directed mostly at the Horde.

Hanse had seen his comrades and friends die in the continuous assaults. He'd dealt with fear, with the brutality and pain that was so common on any battlefield. The boy - was he even a boy anymore? - had learned what war really was, what it really meant. And he deeply hated the other side for making him see this so well.

Poorglade sympathized, as others would. Everyone who had fought on a battlefield had gone through that. Everyone in the courtyard, near those gates, had.

"Captain, sir!" He said, saluting. Formal. More than ever before. More rigid than ever before.

There was nothing to be done about that. "Glad you're still with us! Ready to give the greenskins some pain?" He meant it as lightly as possible, but the earnest nod surprised him. Like him? No, no, there was something more...

"Yes, captain! I'm ready! More'n ready!" he said empathically. He nodded again, fiercely. 'Such a great change.' he mused inwardly. 'And not all good.'

He couldn't ponder it any further. He clapped the youth on the shoulder and rejoined the head of his unit. Swiftblade was already there, his dwarven-made blade drawn out. Blood was drying on its rune-engraved face.

"This is it, my friends! We can't win against this force. We can't beat it back completely." he mused loudly. Mutters erupted, but he overrode them. "But worry not, we won't lose, either. We go now. We will strike as hard as possible! We will force them to disengage, force them to fall back. We cannot win, but they will not take this place! Break out! Out and towards our allies! Kill all the orcs, trolls, ogres that come your way!"

The men roared angrily. It was a harder and less flowery speech than Poorglade expected, but it did what it was supposed to. Swiftblade motioned to the few remaining magi, and they made gestures towards the gates, just as the gnomes, on another signal, triggered some device.

The gates blew apart like a hundred fireballs, and blazed outward. A roar of surprise and pain erupted from the other side. The orcs there would certainly be confused, disorganized, and unready.

"CHARGE!" Swiftblade bellowed, and he and the knights sped through the huge cloud of smoke and heat. Behind the knights, Poorglade and the other captains roared their units forward.

They went through the smoke blindly, and came to a scene of confusion and carnage. Orcs and ogres lay on the ground, moaning and bleeding. Some were unmoving. And the few human knights were busy adding to the fear and confusion that came from the tremendous blast. The mages were shooting spells all around, with lightning and flame gouting out of their hands.

The human infantry took only a few moments to join the fray, and Poorglade roared with as much hate as he could as he tackled a larger orc, planted his sword in the greenskin's skull, and pulled himself back on his feet to keep from being trampled. They took advantage of the pressure exerted by the reinforcements, and the mayhem the explosion had caused. Nearby, he saw Hanse Dryfield.

The youth had been nearly done in by an axe, but while he bled, the human sword had taken the orc through the heart. Hanse forced it out, and took a moment to look at the corpse with a savage glee which would have frightened Poorglade had he not seen it so often in others of human, elven and dwarven descent.

'What orcish bloodlust?' he scoffed to himself. 'On the battlefield, who does not become a beast?' The thought was fleeting, as soon he was back to fighting, as were all others.

And so the battle and the dying continued.

* * *

Late Summer 606, Redridge Mountains, Azeroth

It was a sight like the one he was seeing that made Deathwing's existence worthwhile. The siege at Nethergarde. It had been neither a victory nor a defeat. It had been simply a lot of mortals losing their lives.

That was how the fallen Aspect loved things. Might and blood and death were the ultimate truths in the present plane of existence. Oh, there had been a time, faded and confused deep in his memory, when he had been someone else. Neltharion, he'd been named then. He had been blind, foolishly certain that to nurture life was worth every sacrifice. And then he had awakened and become stronger, and had discarded such foolishness.

"Yes, we exist to conquer and war among ourselves. That is the true meaning of life and death!" he exclaimed as he looked down the foothills at the smoking, broken fortress. He looked as the Alliance and Horde remnants broke off the last assault, moving away from each other, leaving many dead and wounded in the field.

It had been a very pleasing battle to see, yet nothing compared to what came before. Stormwind's siege, Crestfall, Blackrock Spire, the assault on the Portal had all been battles worthy of the ones of old. Glorious and gratifying, that was what they had been to the one who once cared for nurturing the earth as his sole true goal.

He had gone through the Portal unnoticed. Ner'Zul and his servants might see themselves as powerful, the Kirin Tor were arrogant and the elves insufferable, yet none had the power over magic that Deathwing had save for the other Aspects. Simple spells had allowed him to go unseen, undetected as he walked in the form of a grunt, and another spells had deposited him at the place he wanted.

Here, he regained the form of a young human form he had taken to using over the last three years. Using a fraction of the wealth gathered throughout the millennia, he had used money, spells and trickery to build one Lord Prestor as an enigmatic but charismatic force to be reckoned with. One day, he would start on that part of his plan. For now, he had another part to play in.

He closed his eyes and easily made contact with the one he wanted. She was located in Dalaran's capital. Dalaran, if there was a group that made him slightly uneasy amongst the humans, it was the Kirin Tor. None of the vaunted archmagi humanity or elvenkind had produced - except perhaps for Medhiv - came close to being a personal threat. But if they were to gather and strike at him together, they might, just might, stop him. It was a slim chance, of course.

Survival came from taking chances, but also from preventing those, which could hurt you. He broke into his underling's mind. 'How are the preparations proceeding?'

'My Lord Deathwing?' came the quick reply.

'Yes. I have returned to look on your doings.' he said. Mortals. Always needing explanations. 'Now, answer my question. Are preparations proceeding well?'

'Apace, Honored Lord.' came the subdued, dutiful reply. 'We have spread the seeds where they took root best, and now we are all but ready to begin the first magical revolution since mankind first learned from the elves and nearly destroyed themselves.'

She sounded enthusiastic. He let her. She seemed certain that she would succeed and bring honour to him. To Deathwing, it meant nothing that she succeeded or not. But it would be interesting to see how what he'd hatched over the last two human decades came down to. After a moment, he replied.

'Have you had any success in removing those mages who could be troublesome?' he wondered.

'We have removed four archmagi.' she said, cautiously. Had anyone looked at Deathwing's human form, he would have found it glowering.

'WHAT? Only four! With the means I gave you!' He roared mentally. The other, weaker mind flinched, but held despite it. A strong mind. He'd known that from the first. 'Explain yourself, and well. I have no patience for those who do not obey me!'

'Honoured Lord Deathwing, greatest of the Aspects.' came the humble and worried reply. 'We have not failed. Our opponents are archmagi, and some are quite powerful by mortal standards. Rena Delado, for one. Antonidas and several Kirin Tor members for another. And then, Khadgar...'

'You sound like you are snivelling, making excuses.' he pointed out. Despite his earlier tone, he wasn't exactly angry. He was too old and patient for that. He was, however, annoyed.

'Lord Deathwing, I am not. They are powerful, and have means of their own. Of that, I assure you!'

She was in earnest, and had no need to be. He believed her. Especially about that Khadgar. Although he'd needed the help of several other archmagi to hold the power, Medhiv's former apprentice had been able to cast a spell that would have gravely injured even an Aspect. It was a worrisome prospect, yet one to be expected from Medhiv's former pupil.

No, Deathwing had no wish to see Khadgar cross his path. He however wouldn't be a problem in this world, if all went well.

'I believe you. Well, you have prepared contingencies, in case these magi become problematic. I would hope that you do.' he stated.

'Of course.'

'Have you felt draconic influence in the Kirin Tor?' he suddenly asked. Maybe it was just his old soul being paranoid, but in the last several years, when he'd prodded...

'Lord Deathwing.' the mental voice answered uneasily 'I must tell you, I do not know -'

'Forget I ever asked.' he mused. 'Concentrate on your mission. Prepare what must be. And strike when you must strike. Failure will only be answered by your death.'

'Of course. I am, Honoured Lord, ever your servant.' With that, the Aspect broke the magical connection of their wills. He didn't believe her. Not fully. She was hiding something. She had been good at that. Extremely good, which was why he'd chosen her and given her access to magic.

He couldn't believe that the Dragons would have nothing to do with the Kirin Tor. The Blues had often travelled to the city in human guise, and it was hard to believe they were wholly absent. And the Reds...Alexstraza's brood... they were so in despair at being forced to serve the Horde. He couldn't think that they would try nothing. It was impossible to Deathwing's belligerent mind.

'It will be a concern for another time.' he told himself, and watched as the spent forces of the Alliance and the Horde shambled away from each other still. He could hear shouts and screams and moans even from the distance sweet music, if nothing else.

Deathwing loved the Horde, and loved to use its bloodlust. Kalimdor's continent had been so dull for so long, with the Night Elves controlling the northern parts and Tauren and Centaur tribes fighting in raids rather than warfare, that he'd long left the continent to its own device. Here, the humans, trolls, elves and dwarves, the gnomes and goblins, all made the eastern lands much more entertaining.

The humans had brought annoying, detestable peace with the Pact of Stormwind. But then the orcs had arrived, and life had become as it should be. Now, the Aspect had plans. He would use the chaotic times to topple the eastern powers and unite them under his rule. And he would use all of that might that the eastern races had, to wage a great war against Kalimdor. A war that would last long and would shatter the world.

Yes. Dalaran was a piece. Dreanor another. He would see that through, as he'd had all things.

"And the world will crumble into a war which it will never recover from and it will learn the ultimate truth, as it must and shall." he mused. And if there was some giggling involved in that sentence, Deathwing felt it was only normal. Insanity held no meaning to one with the ultimate wisdom.

Chuckling to himself, looking at the torn remnants of yet another battlefield, Deathwing savoured the agony of the mortal races, and waited as his meticulous plans hatched everywhere, spreading conflict, as it should.

* * *

RECENT TIMELINE OF THE EASTERN CONTINENT

1 FOUNDING OF THE HOLY LIGHT. Several small human churches and cults, inspired by the elven religion of healing and light, form the Church of the Holy Light in Lordaeron. The new calendar takes its root from that event.

1 - 250 TIME OF CONFLICTS. The seven human nations grow completely apart in terms of cultures and habits, and conflict between them becomes frequent, spreading to elven Quel'Thalas and dwarven Khaz Modan as well. The Holy Light spreads throughout the human realms, and the elves adopt it because of it is like their own with very few actual changes. The Dwarves are more moderate about the religion, whose clerics argue against the fighting.

250 - 382 AZEROTH ASCENDS. The Kingdom of Azeroth prospers and grows, soon outstripping all other realms in terms of might and culture. Its leaders help diminish the conflicts on the continent and finally manage to see the nations brought together for years of talks that would culminate in the Pact of Stormwind.

382 - 583 PACT OF STORMWIND. A time of relative peace and plenty between established nations, broken by no large-scale conflict, allows all settled realms to further tame their environments. Monsters decrease and trade between nations increases, while ideas allow cultures to grow at a much higher rate. The nations of the human continent reach their peak. In the Pact's last years, the Dark Portal opens.

583 - 587 THE FIRST WAR. The Horde, which had possibly been marshalling for a while, attacks the Kingdom of Azeroth. Despite some success at keeping the enemy in check, the human realm is eventually overwhelmed, and its king orders a massive exodus with the help of Kul Tiras and Lordaeron. Its King, Llane, is killed, breaking royal succession and making Lord Anduin Lothar, their best remaining lord and leader, Regent of the Azerothians. The exiled humans settle in southern Lordaeron.

587 - 591 EYE OF THE STORM. The Horde brings nearly all of its forces through the Dark Portal. In response, the nations of Azeroth, Lordearon, Stromgarde, Kul Tiras and Alterac form the Alliance of Lordaeron, which is quickly joined by Dalaran and, more reluctantly, by Gilneas. The elf realm of Quel'Thalas stays aloof, even as Khaz Modan is occupied by the Horde. King Perenolde of Alterac betrays the Alliance to the Horde. A Horde Civil War rages between Doomhammer and Gul'Dan, stalling their invasion plans.

591 - 599 THE SECOND WAR. The Horde and Alliance clash across the continent in mighty battles on land, sea and air. The Holy Light appoints the first Paladins, while the Red Dragons are forced into servitude for the Horde. Quel'Thalas joins the Alliance The Horde deals the Alliance some mighty blows, but is betrayed by Gul'Dan before they can deal critical ones. A new Horde Civil War tears the Horde apart, allowing the Alliance to regroup. Khaz Modan is liberated and joins the Alliance. The shattered Horde is pushed back to its main stronghold, where Anduin Lothar dies. Alterac treachery is found out, and the dissident nation is occupied. The Alliance goes on to defeat the Horde at the Dark Portal, making it impassable for several years.

599 - 606 TENSE REBUILDING. Azeroth is once again in human hands and rebuilds, while most of the Horde is put into internment camps. Several Horde factions remain dangerous, however. Anduin Wrynn becomes King of Azeroth, reconnecting the royal line after well over a decade of regency. Orc, troll and ogre warbands are common. The Dark Portal is shut by Khadgar's spell, but Ner'Zul manages to reopen it around 605. He makes contact with Kilrogg Deadeye, a remaining free leader of the Horde. Relations between Alliance nations cool for the most part.

606 A NEW CONFLICT? The Portal reopens, and Ner'Zul begins his plans as he sends forces to the human realms. The Alliance begins to muster to meet the new threat. Once more, a war looks grimly possible...


	4. Chapter Three: Lords and Servants

**Warcraft: Beyond the Dark Portal**

**Chapter Three: Lords and Servants**

Late Summer 606, Sunshire, Azeroth

Aerth Swiftblade rode home swiftly. He hadn't taken time to wash yet, nor had he even cleaned his armour of the dust, blood and grime of the battlefield. He wasn't overly concerned with that. In fact, it could be said that he couldn't find himself caring. There were larger issues at hand.

He had had his trip considerably shortened by a gryphon rider who'd been kind enough to drop him but one day's ride from his home, after which he procured a horse and ridden for much of that time, taking only brief rest.

It was a rare sight for him to be seen without an escort, but Swiftblade hadn't felt particularly worried. Although he was now rather used to the company and attention, he found that being by himself with his own thoughts had a charm he had all but forgotten. He didn't have to pretend to be in charge and to know everything that there was to know. He just had to achieve his goal, nothing more.

It didn't last particularly long. He met several farmers and merchants on the way. Early in the morning as he rode nearer his home, he came upon a foot patrol which recognized him and insisted to escort him. Too weary to argue, he had accepted, wondering if being important to some didn't make one a prisoner in some ways.

It was thus not alone but with three footmen that he returned to his home at Sunshire. He took a moment to observe the small city he had first known while scarcely a knight proper.

Sunshire, despite being several centuries old, had never grown beyond its sturdy stone wall, which encircled it entirely but for a small harbour where the Elwynn River ran, wide and deep as it ever had been. Within stood houses, barracks, stalls and mansions, with Fregar Castle standing slightly removed from the wealthier people, its own wall now surrounding its gardens.

The city of Sunshire had been well-built for what it had been: a mercantile city. Not having been built around any monstrous lairs, the settlement had thrived under Fregar rulership, gaining wealth slowly but steadily. The walls had been built only a little over two centuries ago, when some bandits had taken to raiding the growing wealth gathered there. As the Pact of Stormwind came around and for two centuries of relative peace, the city had never had to defend itself seriously.

Then, of course, the orcs came.

Caneas Fregar, Eira's father, had always been a firm believer that the Kingdom of Azeroth would prevail over the orcs long before the green, bloody tide came to his doorstep. When it became clear that it wouldn't, what had been prepared had been too little, too late. Despite some rather valiant efforts – to which Swiftblade had sometimes personally taken part, it had fallen to the Horde quickly.

When the Horde had been broken and scattered, the newly-named Duke had put together a force of five hundred men, and had gone to reclaim Sunshire, something which took but fourteen days. With his men now assigned to protect the region, reconstruction had begun in earnest, and now the city had risen again. Its walls had been rebuilt and greatly reinforced, sturdy barracks and training grounds had been built, and the harbour defences had been upgraded.

Now, Sunshire was his home, eclipsing even his native Moonbrooke in the knight's mind.

He quickly rode to the gate, which were open but manned by experienced veterans of the Second War. People streamed in and out of them, and more than a few muttered and gasped when they saw who he was, bowing or calling Swiftblade out. He responded tiredly, but gladly, but it was only when the captain of the guard came to speak to him that he actually talked.

"Mightily glad to see ye're fine, milord Duke." The man said, bowing once. "We've been hearing word that there was one big battle back in that dank swamp."

"Indeed there was, captain." He said evenly.

"And did we win or lose, if ye don't mind my askin'?" came the pragmatic question.

"If by winning you mean that the Horde didn't break out to assault us again, then yes, it was a clear win. The horde's thrust has been greatly blunted, and they're contained in the Black Morass." He eyed the captain seriously. "Only contained, captain. You know what I mean by that."

The man had served in the First Alliance Army, when Swiftblade had been an outcast general given a nearly-impossible goal. He simply nodded. "Aye, I'd say that I do, milord. Any orders."

"Gather whatever armsman you can spare from the defences here, and see if we can have some strong boys and sturdy men join up. What little we send there will help, and the more experienced people, the better."

He left the captain at that, and rode his weary mount to Castle Fregar. Rebuilt along with the rest of the city, it had also been strengthened greatly, while keeping as much of its original grace as possible. This was the heart of the fledgling – but, because of the Fregar fortunes, rather wealthy – House Swiftblade.

The guards and some servants hailed him, and as Swiftblade gave his horse to a stablehand, he saw his wife, Eira, walk down from the castle's main entrance towards him. She was wearing a cyan dress with slight frills, and her air was done so that her long locks were set in sorts of brown tresses. Born to the nobility and raised by it, Eira Fregar Swiftblade knew what a noblewoman should look and act like, something he had yet to learn.

Although there was relief and joy in her eyes, she wrinkled her nose at his sight. "Lord Aerth, is that the way for a Duke to be seen?" she asked, half-teasing only. He bowed in answer.

"Alas! The battlefield is cruel and, I must say, dirty. But will you allow me for a walk with your nonetheless, Lady Eira?"

She seemed to consider it a moment, and then nodded. "Of course, I have missed your company."

He took his wife by the arm and led her away, and it was only after a long moment, as they neared the garden, that he leaned towards her. "You really know how to exaggerate, don't you?" he mused.

"In public, we must keep a public face, Aerth." She admonished him. "The nobility isn't like being with your soldiers, or even with other commanders, and the people want to see nobles act like nobles. It is a role we play." She then leaned closer. "I am very glad you are safe, Aerth." That last sentence was filled with the same warmth she had given only him for two decades.

"I'll never let the enemy get me as long as you're safe." He told her, and she smiled. It had, after all, been one of the first things he'd told her after they were married. So far, he had been truthful. He wondered where the children were. Probably off making trouble for their caretakers, he reflected.

"Will you be staying long?" she asked, and there was hidden hope in her voice. He hated to dash it, but he shook his head wearily.

"Two days. Long enough to be certain it is him. Then I'll be off to find him." He mused.

She looked disappointed for a moment, but quickly covered it up. "Him? Who?"

"One of our best. The best commander in the Alliance, at least to my mind: Rellon Minvare." He answered.

She looked shocked. He couldn't blame her, really. He had said a name which had become an embarrassment of sorts to the Alliance. But, he reflected dourly, it might have been the Alliance's own fault that one who had once been a great hero was now nearly set against those he sought to protect.

"My love, that isn't wise!" she said, forgetting herself completely a moment. "Lord Minvare might-"

"He won't do anything against me. Not personally." Swiftblade looked angrier than anything else. "If anything, I understand how he feels. No wonder he feels little loyalty towards the Alliance. But he's an honourable man, and I think I can convince him. Besides it all, Eira, we do need him if we are going to fight the Horde hard once more."

She still looked unconvinced. She had rarely met Minvare, and had never trusted the man's often eerie silences, his laconic replies. But Swiftblade, despite the situation, trusted him. Had to trust him.

And it might be a greater need than he had told his wife. If they pushed the Horde back, then, perhaps…

But that didn't matter. He was walking alone with his wife. He leaned towards her and kissed her. She responded, but worry remained in her eyes. She was too keen of mind to be relaxed so simply.

"He is still my friend, my love." He said gently, but she bit her lips slightly.

"But what happens if he forgets that?" she asked.

To that, Swiftblade gave no answer. None was needed between them.

* * *

Late Summer 606, Blackrock Spire, Redridge Mountains 

Blackrock Spire had been described as the greatest fortress that the Orcish Hordes had ever built, using the remains of the Draenai people – who had all died during or upon its completion – and large numbers of lowly peons, under the vision of Blackhand the Destroyer. It had been further reinforced by Doomhammer, and for many human years had stood unchallenged.

Seven years, as humans counted them, ago, the so-called Alliance of Lordaeron, led by one human named Lothar, had challenged the Horde's crowning achievement of power and might. While Lothar had fallen to Doomhammer in glorious battle, the Spire and its myriad defences had fallen, toppling Horde power and perhaps breaking it forever on that world.

Grom Hellscream had been on Dreanor when the immense fortress-city had fallen. He had heard only stories. And yet, he could see, as he surveyed its ruins, how it had been in its prime. Filled with homes, barracks, armouries, gladiatorial halls and deeps dedicated to necromancy, it had dwarfed even Fortress Shadowmoon. He could feel the glory and power which had been centred there.

He could also see, from the crumbling walls, rotted and rusted weapons, and the myriad shattered machines of war which lay about, of the downfall it had suffered. He had trouble believing that such weak, small, pinkish creatures like the humans could have done such a thing. Yet the proof was there for his eyes to see. It made his blood boil, something which occurred to the chieftain often.

And there, in the midst of the destruction, some huts had been rebuilt, a low wall put around a few habitations. The orcs living there had shown little wish to be involved with the new invasion force, obviously not wanting to risk being put in what the Alliance called a 'concentration camp'. That, too, made the chieftain angry.

But what he looked at now made him feel worse than angry.

"Hiding here like some undead refuse." He sneered. "The great Death Knights, huddling in this place."

"They were low in the Shadow Council." One, elderly orc, one of the few blademasters left save for Hellscream himself, stated. "Without Gul'Dan or some powerful ones like Gorefiend or Hardcrush, they are leaderless."

"And easy to manipulate. Their powers over the dead may be strong, but they have no abilities to fight by themselves." Hellscream mused.

"I must warn you, chieftain." The elder orc said gravely, "The power over death is nothing trifling. I advise treading this road with care."

"Bah! The dead do not frighten me. Dying doesn't frighten me, either! Let these carcasses come at me, if they dare!"

Inwardly, however, his passions were somewhat cooled by the powers he had seen at work as Gorefiend killed and brought the dead back to a travesty of life. Although the chieftain did not fear such powers, he was intelligent enough to respect them. It was with a rather wary step that he approached the place where the few death knights – eight according to the orcs living nearby – lived in.

"They better show themselves quickly." He muttered.

The place was rock carved and worked into the likeness of a great skeleton. It might have once been frightening, or awe-inspiring in its morbid way, yet the fallen timber, the scars of battle and the demolished part made it seems as fallen and as decrepit as the rest of Blackrock Spire. Still, a palpable power could be felt from the place.

He was a dozen steps from the foreboding entrance – which seemed like the giant skeleton's mouth – when a blast of greenish energy lashed out from it angrily. Hellscream barely had the wits and reflexes to throw themselves off to one side, as did most of his companions.

One grunt, however, wasn't so lucky. The blast hit him, and Hellscream could only gaze as his underling flailed about, green flames devouring him quickly, aging his flesh until a corpse fell to the grown, nothing but dry, aged bones. The sight was horrifying, and for a moment fear entered the chieftain's mind.

"Leave us, mortal orc, or suffer the same fate." Came a voice from deeper in the half-destroyed lair.

The arrogant, complacent tone seared away the fear, replacing it with rage. Hellscream gripped his blade and lurched to his feet, eyes sparking with reddish energy. 'If these undead fools think that they will make me submit like this…!' he thought angrily.

"Show yourselves, cowards!" he growled loudly.

"I think not. Begone and bother us no more." Came the yet-arrogant reply, from a voice deep as a well. It, however, didn't seem nearly as powerful as that of Gorefiend's.

"I'll have no coward hiding in a hole ordering me." He snapped, hefting his blade. "Come out, you puppets of Gul'Dan's! I order it in the name of the Horde, and that or Ner'Zul!"

Now, there was hesitation. Ner'Zul's name was never used lightly. And with Gul'Dan now dead and his skull having been hollowed out, the elderly shaman was the most powerful magic-user and leader in the Horde. The Death Knight seemed to consider this new information, and the arrogance in the hollow voice was much diminished when it spoke again.

"Ner'Zul? We have taken no oath to Ner'Zul. Only to Gul'Dan, and he is now dead. We are free to choose what we will do with the time we have." Was the answer. Despite the confident tone, there was a not of uncertainty which Hellscream gleefully leaped upon.

"Choose? Choose what? This, here? Fleeing the humans, these so-called Paladins and priests?" he asked disdainfully. "Your souls are orcish! Remember your pride, if you ever had any!"

"Who are you to judge us like this? Gul'Dan? Ner'Zul? Doomhammer?" the voice returned, laden with newfound hostility, "You are no one. Nothing. Just a mortal with a blade. You have no power to force our oath."

Hellscream controlled his rage at that, refusing to be baited. He found the undead's manner insufferable, yet the power it wielded could be useful indeed if he was to fulfil his strikes quickly. He listened to the tone and heard the challenge spoken within. He gripped his blade harder in answer, lifting it.

"If you still refuse to submit, then test my power and see if I'm nothing worthwhile." He growled, signalling the others to step back.

"Chieftain!" the old blademaster warned, but Hellscream didn't listen. This was too important, in more than one way.

He stepped forth, his blade at the ready, and advanced steadily. Suddenly, a gout of greenish energy surged towards him. With a cry, he swung into it with the blade which had been used in his clan for five generations. With a great, powerful flash, the greenish flame was disrupted, and Hellscream stood unharmed. He grinned at the darkness, and proceeded to deflect another spell, and yet another.

If it could be hit and disrupted, the necromancy was nothing. Batting the attacks aside, Hellscream walked up to the entrance boldly, and finally saw pairs of glowing eyes looking at him.

"You tested me. I passed your test." He said, hiding his triumph as best he could, "Now give me your oaths."

Silence.

"Give me your oaths, or become undead fools, endlessly chased by the humans." He said with more force.

There was silence yet, and Hellscream was feeling anger overtake him again, when forms slowly emerged from the darkness. They were eight, wrapped in cloak and cowl, showing signs here and there of the decomposing flesh and armour which had once belonged to eight human mounted grunts. They stood there, unmoving, and Hellscream stared back, holding back his people with his free hand.

At last, the one which had talked all that time took a step forward. "We will serve you as long as you're strong. As soon as you weaken, however…"

"I won't weaken. If I weaken, I will die by my own hand." He answered seriously. Such were the ways he had been brought up with, despite the bloodlust and the never-ending lust for battle.

"Good. We will follow you then, warrior. Until you are dead, or we are." It mused, and it bowed its head, the others following its example.

Blackrock Spire, it seemed now to Hellscream, wasn't only the place of the Horde's ignominious defeat.

It was also the place where its revenge on the Alliance truly began.

* * *

Late Summer 606, Ironforge, Khaz Modan 

There was a knock on the door. Rellon Minvare ignored it. As far as he was concerned, his day trying to better the lives of those living under the man named Varien Wrynn was over. And so, he looked out his window, into the hot, reddish light of the Great Forge, and hoped whoever wanted to bother him got the idea that it wouldn't quite work that way.

No such luck. The knock returned, persistent. Frowning, Minvare drained the cup he held of the wine, and poured himself another. Still, another knock. A really persistent person, that one.

"Whatever it is, leave it until tomorrow." He grunted. He waited a moment, and was surprised when there was an answer.

"I'm sorry, milord Minvare." said the voice of one of his assistants. "But there is someone here who wishes to see you urgently."

"People want to see me urgently everyday. Is there a reason why it can't wait?" He grunted. It seemed that looking out the window was one more thing that bothersome, insufferable duty was taking away from him.

"Well, milord, I must-" his assistant began, but then there was silence. Minvare lifted an eyebrow in curiosity, and choked when the door opened without his consent. He sat up in his chair, angrily.

"What is the meaning of this!" he growled, "I said that I wished to be left alone. How dare you…" he then fell quiet as a man he knew entered, gently pushing the distraught aide aside.

"Hello, Rellon. It has been, what, two years?" Aerth Swiftblade said plainly as he closed the door behind him. His head now had as much grey as brown, and wrinkles had begun to show, but the one that soldiers had revered as the Invincible General still looked as spry and as determined as ever. The very sight bothered the older Minvare to no end, for some reason.

Swiftblade saw this, of course. Without being asked, he took a chair opposite Minvare and sat with a relieved grunt.

"Thank the Light!" he said, "Gryphons may be quick, but they're too uncomfortable for me. I wish the gnomes would finish that underground tunnel of theirs already. How have you been, my friend."

"I am as fine as I can be." Minvare answered evenly, still frowning. Swiftblade acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary."

"Well, I'm Light-blasted tired. You know, with running Sunshire, all those problems with bandits and raiders. And now with the orcs on the move again, I have little time to myself." He sighed, and leaned back. Just then, Minvare shook his head firmly.

"No. I won't do it again." He said.

"Sorry, what was it?"

"I said no, Aerth. No, to serving in the Alliance Army again. I have served my share, I have shed my blood and given years of my life to the royal heads and to the High Command. No more." He drained his glass again. "No more, Aerth."

Swiftblade didn't seem surprised at the answer he received, only looking on seriously. The younger man was anything but a fool, and must have wagered the answer he'd have would resemble what the older, former general had given. Swiftblade, Minvare knew, was however as stubborn as could be found in a man when he had a mission, and the older man sighed when his words didn't seem to be making any effect.

"We'll need you, Rellon." He said.

"I doubt it. Turalyon, you, maybe Illadan…you three can handle the Horde. You don't need me that much." He shrugged. "Worse possibilities happen; there are other good military commanders in the Alliance."

"Those with the experience don't have the talent, and those few I might think have the talent have no real experience. Not in leading a large force against the odds. You were gifted in that." Swiftblade answered. "We will need you to help us in our plans. Right now, the Horde is still trying to gain a foothold. We can push them back. Then…"

"Then?"

"We might consider doing what they did." Came the calm reply.

Despite all that had happened, all the bitterness in the past three years, Minvare did not react much to the rather remarkable statement. He simply viewed it, saw its implications, and made his own opinion when he had looked the situation over attentively.

"A bold plan. This is why you need me not at all. You, Aerth, are the expert in bold plans. I'm much more of the meticulous kind." He said.

"That sounds very much like an excuse, old friend."

"It's a fact, it is how things are."

"And, of course, what happened to her has no influence on your decision." Swiftblade answered simply.

One moment, Minvare was sitting complacently. The next, he surged from his seat and tried to rush Swiftblade angrily. Two facts prevented him from accomplishing that goal. One, Swiftblade had always been slightly stronger physically. Two, the wine dulled Minvare's abilities. Such as it was, Swiftblade stood a bit faster, caught his charge, and pushed the man once renowned for his calm thinking back into his chair.

They stayed there, staring at each other, for a long moment, Minvare's angry gaze meeting Swiftblade's disappointment.

"It was low of me to talk about that incident like that." The younger man admitted, "But I never thought that you'd act like this. Attacking me like a ruffian. That wasn't like you at all."

"Don't act mighty with me, Aerth." Minvare retorted, "I care not what you think of me. I only know that I won't serve the men who destroyed her with their foolishness." He said stonily.

"That's fine. Don't serve them. Just serve it for the Alliance's sake." Came the quick answer.

Minvare glared at his one-time friend again. "Attempting to manipulate me, Lord Swiftblade? Do you think I am a fool? As far as my mind is concerned, the Alliance should dissolve and be forgotten. Its purpose is served."

Another silence, during which Swiftblade walked to the window himself and looked out at the industrious, orderly dwarven city of Ironforge. The heat from fire, sounds from forges and bellows, and the voices of thousands could be heard wafting in with the hot breeze. The two men listened to it all for a long moment before Swiftblade looked at Minvare again.

"Would she agree?" he asked simply.

And that almost made Minvare attack the man again. This time, however, he didn't. Partly because it wouldn't work, and partly because, deep down in his soul, he doubted what the answer should be. Or rather, because he was becoming certain of what the true answer was.

He hated Swiftblade for that.

"Even if she wouldn't, Aerth," He grunted, "I am not as forgiving of the Alliance and its flaws as she might have been. They destroyed one of their best, for foolish reasons, and that cannot be forgiven."

"I am not asking you to forgive those at fault. I will remind you, however, that many – myself included – did not agree with what happened." Swiftblade sighed, "We acted too late, but we didn't know what would happen. The entire Alliance shouldn't be condemned for that. The soldiers, the civilians – these are the people we must guide and protect. She believed that, I do, and I know that, deep down, that is also your belief."

Yes, he truly could hate Swiftblade now. But Minvare also knew that there was truth beyond it all. It wasn't a very pleasant truth, and it wasn't one he was certain he would hold on very long yet. But it was a truth, nonetheless.

Yet it meant serving an organization he hated, serving under a man he resented, and facing a task he felt he no longer had a will for. He wondered if it would be better to stay here, in Ironforge, with the dwarves. He then visualized what she would have done, had she lived, despite everything.

"You want to go charge into the Horde's world?" he mused.

"That might be the case." Swiftblade answered. Minvare nodded, and then fell into his thoughts. Noticing Swiftblade still looked at him, he gave the only answer that he felt he could give at the moment.

"I will think on it, Aerth. No more than that. Now, sit, and drink with me. It has been a long time since we drank together."

And Minvare stretched his hand towards the wine bottle.

* * *

Late Summer 606, Violet Citadel, Dalaran 

The preparations were, at last, complete. One crucial step in the grand plan to subjugate Dalaran and, at length, humanity. The symbols had been carved and ensorcelled, the pedestals and runes arranged to specified needs. It had taken much effort and far too much time to complete the great summoning chamber.

But there it was. The hidden sorceress only known to others as Shadowbound looked around in satisfaction.

"It is almost perfect. I am most pleased." She nodded to the four mages – three humans and one half-dwarf – who had built the place to her specifications. "Can we channel more power than a normal summoning chamber?"

"Yes, Lady." One of the humans, the eldest and most gifted, told her. "Only the Kirin Tor itself has anything better for these purposes. Yet, my Lady, no spells exist to control such summoning power if it came to be unleashed."

"You need not worry." The cowled, hidden woman said, her magically-changed voice carrying amusement. "I would not have built this place without some plan in mind."

"As you say. Yet I must admit to being concerned. These devices, these runes…they show a type of summoning banned from all magical studies for nearly a thousand years in Dalaran, five thousand for the mages of Silvermoon. If this came to be discovered by the Elders…"

"The Elders only control what they see." Shadowbound answered acidly, a tone of warning in her voice. "They believe they hold mankind's destiny in their hands, and that they are in control." She nearly laughed at that, but kept her cold, unseen gaze upon the squirming man. At length, he bowed, surrendering to her will.

Mages or not, Shadowbound reflected wryly, most men are so easy to manipulate.

But Shadowbound knew that the thought came only from the fact that she had power. It hadn't always been that great. She remembered a time, painfully, when she served others, conducting tasks both dangerous and thankless. Then, there had been abandonment, pain, and flight. And then…

And then…the Fallen Aspect, Deathwing, had given her enough power to carve her place, subtly prodding dissident mages into forming an underground conspiracy which had used such things as Alterac's deception and the short, damaging Alliance Civil War to further their own goals.

The Elders… puppetmasters who were only puppets themselves. They believed that they were about to make a revolution which would create a magical empire which could bring a greater unity to the continent. They believed the cause was worth the sacrifices. Fools, all of them, used so easily.

Yet, for Lord Deathwing's plan to work, they needed the arcane resources and magical nexus which only the Violet Citadel and Silvermoon had. The elves, however, would never allow such experiments near their precious Sunwell. As such, Dalaran was the only choice. Yet to use the nexus without opposition, it would be needed for Shadowbound to aid the fools who wished to topple the Kirin Tor.

The summoning chamber's first goal would thus be to give the Elders an edge when the time came.

"We will attempt to use this place at once." She decided. "Are the sacrifices ready?"

"They are, Lady." The half-dwarf answered.

"Bring them in."

Doors opened on both ends of the chamber, and people were shuffled in by magically-animated armoured suits. They were scruffy-looking, wearing clothes little better than rages, their bodies misshapen from a hard life. These people, Shadowbound saw, had the tortured eyes of those for whom misery had no secrets. They were the poor that humanity's kings and leaders, in their arrogance, rarely took notice of.

Yet, to her, they were now quite precious.

"Where did you find these wretched souls?" she inquired of her subordinates.

"The slums of Whitefort, Lady Shadowbound." One answered readily, "The city is so large that it was the easiest of things to do to procure what you wished for. No one will even notice that they are gone."

The captured humans were herded into two circles linked by runes to another one in the middle. Once they were inside, the subordinates spoke a few words of arcane lore, and the runes began to glow. Ignoring the humans' fear, Shadowbound ascended the central pedestal, drawing a thick volume from the depth of her robes and laying it on the lectern.

"If Silentgreen even knew that I possessed this item…" she mused to herself.

The book was thick but slender, inscribed with now-broken, elven runes of protection. It was, if there was any truth to the stories, the greatest book of summoning to have survived an apocalyptic war, thousands of years ago, when Quel'Thalas itself did not exist and the world was different. It had been scribed by one Dalucius, who called himself a Queldorei…a Highborne in ancient Thalassian.

The book had been passed to Dath Remar's lieutenant, and had been secreted away in a great vault when Silvermoon had been built. There it had lain, for thousands of years, unused.

Until the Horde attacked Silvermoon and sacked it. Until Gul'Dan found the book, and until it came to be, through her Lord Deathwing, in her possession. With that book, she knew, she could summon things that few had seen over the centuries.

The other four, lesser pedestals were now occupied by her subordinates, who had laid four books of summoning of their own. Lesser books, of human make, they would provide stability to the spell. With a nod, she began to recite the words, painstakingly translated from ancient Thalassian to more common usage.

She spoke words of ancient arcane, and the runic circles glowed brighter. Some of the poor people gathered in the circles became agitated, and tried to flee, only to be held back by the runes' powers. They began to plead and scream, breaking the simple mind spells laid on them. Shadowbound ignored them. They were only tools for the experiments.

"I Beseech That Which Dwells Beyond The Light." She recited. "I Strive For Thy Goals Within The Infinite Chaos. From Thy Plane, I Summon Thou."

The runes began to crackle with arcane energy, surrounding the frantic humans. Around her, the other spellcasters spoke words of arcane to aid the power through. She could feel something…flickering. A small opening, called by the magic and the words.

"I Humbly Come, Lord Of All Chaos. Fallen Titan, King Of The Great Dark Beyond. These Souls, Unworthy As They May Be, I Offer Thy Might."

Then the arcane energy lashed inward, at the trapped humans, and they writhed in terrible agony. Glows surrounded them, spewing from every pore, as the energies drank their very life, their very souls. The screams would have driven a normal man into irreversible madness. Shadowbound felt nothing.

"Forthwith, To My Unworthy Aid, May Your Legion Come. To Thy They Are Bound, Thus To Mine Service In Contract. Thus I Beseech, Sargeras, Most Supreme Of The Burning Legion!" she finished reciting.

At that moment, there was a crack, both mental and physical, and the screams of the humans stopped. It was a tear in the dimensions, felt only a single moment, chilling even Shadowbound's soul. For there, for a moment, she saw the vast forces of the Burning Legion, their unstoppable might, and their urge to devour all on the world.

Then, with a flash, the barriers of the world came again, and there was a brilliant flash of light. Shadowbound blinked, and she surveyed the summoning circle as her vision returned. What she saw made her swell with the feeling of success.

In the middle of the room, within the circle, stood a large golem of stone, surrounded by greenish flames. Nonsentient, glowing eyes were fixed upon her, awaiting a command. Shadowbound felt the thing's power. This entity, although soulless, was more powerful than ten normal golems. Shadowbound had successfully summoned what Dalucius had once called a Jerhiedaik…an Infernal.

There was silence. The four subordinates gaped at the otherworldly construct.

"B-By the Light…" one muttered in frightened awe.

"No. The Light has nothing to do with this." Another mused in wonder. "Nothing at all."

That was a truth, Shadowbound said. A great truth. And an even greater victory. She had achieved Deathwing's goal. Summoning aid from the Burning Legion was costly, but possible.

"Yes. Yes." She mused in a voice she didn't quite recognize as her own. "Magnificient."

Everything was going exactly as Lord Deathwing had predicted it would. Fate, it seemed, was on their side.

* * *

Late Summer 606, Violet Citadel, Dalaran 

When one walked The Violet Citadel's streets in the night, one felt safer than in most cities. The city had been erected with the goal of knowledge, arcane convenience and civilization for all in mind. Although such goals had yet to be truly attained centuries after such prideful boasts, there was no denying certain things in Dalaran which were rare in all but the largest of cities.

The Citadel, for one thing, had wide, well-lighted thoroughfares, paved in fine cobblestones. Although Whitefort and the rebuilding Stormwind had such things, none of them had the light given exclusively by magical orbs, negating any chances of the light fizzling out or failing.

There were wards laid in most parts of the city which were said to somewhat soothe violent instincts, as well as rendering spells less powerful – and destructive – as they might have been. Only in select places, such as an archwizard's home, could such things be changed.

Finally, there were magi-wardens, the special force formed for the Citadel and the Citadel only. Wearing runic, enspelled armour, they carried specially crafted weapons and spells designed to stop, subdue and, if all else failed, destroy the opponent. The wardens answered only to the Kirin Tor itself, yet had kept trouble away from the city for generations.

Yes, the Violet Citadel was well-protected, with more convenience and comfort than could be found anywhere outside of fabled Silvermoon. Walking the main streets at night was designed to bring no fear, and certainly no wariness.

Yet the two, who walked some distance from one home to the next, although they felt little in the way of fear, were quite wary.

It was a rare time when Khadgar had time to walk with Rena, but the archmage had much to talk about with the frail-looking but extremely powerful spellcaster. He liked being with Rena, for one thing. For the other, recent events had made him doubt many things about his birthplace. Hence, the new wariness.

"You think you were specifically targeted?" he asked her. Looking around, he saw that his silent spell had worked perfectly.

"It did feel like that, at first sight." She answered slowly. "But if I was the only target, other events would be too much of a coincidence."

Khadgar nodded at the remark. During the weeks during which he had been away, using what he could to convince the Alliance leaders to consider taking the fight to Draenor, much had happened in Dalaran. Rena and two other trustworthy magi had been attacked, with only the frail woman surviving through wits, power and luck. The way the other two magi had died was, it was true, too similar to the attack upon Rena to be considered a coincidence.

"It was designed to frighten us." He mused.

"That much is certain. Its worked on some, as well." She shrugged, "We expected it would happen eventually."

"Not so soon."

"That was your optimism talking when you surmised what'd happen." She objected. "For my part, I'm not very shocked."

"Still, to attack three powerful archmagi so openly." He mused, "It's bold, bold to the point of recklessness. If they continue like this, they'll make a fatal mistake soon enough."

He expected Rena to agree with him. To his surprise, she didn't. In fact, she shook her head in the absolute negative. She looked actually worried, which did nothing to calm Khadgar's state of mind.

"I'm not that certain, Khadgar. You didn't see that assassin. She knew a magus's weaknesses; she was well-armed, agile and powerful. If not for that spell of mine, she would have killed me easily. They're not reckless. They're just ready to start making their move."

He sighed. Khadgar had learned to implicitly trust Rena's judgement on matters of character, so he had to accept the unpalatable facts she announced. "And what is the Kirin Tor doing about this?"

She looked bitter. "Talking mostly. Nothing constructive. Antonidas is rather tired of the meetings now, as is Kel'Thuzad. I don't trust the Kirin Tor much, these days."

Khadgar was about to answer that, when a buzzing began to sound in his head. He shook his head, trying to clear it, yet it only became louder. It closed his eyes against the pain, and during these flashes, he saw a face he had not seen in many years, as well as words he heard as well as if they had been seared into his soul.

"Beware aboveground, apprentice!"

His eyes flew open, and such was the strength of the warning that he effectively began wording the words of a shielding spell. He was just finished when a bolt of magic lightning tried to crash against him, diffused within a moment. Rena reacted at once, throwing up her own shields, cursing after wards as she tried to spot the assailant.

Khadgar suffered a new attack, as his shield was battered by gouts of flame and darts of acid in quick succession. He could feel the power behind the spells, the energy in them. Whoever cast them was very proficient, much talented in the magical arts. He looked to see if other passerbies were being attacked, and saw that they stood frozen in place. Very talented indeed.

Rena spoke arcane words angrily, and he echoed them quickly. As they both finished, as torrent of magical flames and lightning writhed towards the attack point. It struck, toppling part of the building. As it crashed, people came back to life, and citizens who had only been going on about their business a second ago were now scattering in panic.

There came no more attacks. Piece of building fell to the ground with a thundering noise.

Still, it was only after several long moments of such calm that Khadgar decided to release his hold on the magic reluctantly. It was a hard process – it only got harder over time to stop using magic – and he felt grim wariness as he surveyed the damage and the panic on the ground. He looked at Rena with a rueful look.

"Those spells. He selectively stopped time itself for a very short bit. And the other spells. Those spells were ordinary in nature, but the casting, the focus and power…" he muttered.

"I felt that, too." She admitted. "It came at us stealthily, and yet it was just as powerful as one I'd cast. Definitely someone of high magical powers could cast. I don't see anything less than an archmage."

He looked at the panic in the street, at the guards and wardens rushing to the scene. It was eerie, to see such panic in Dalaran. But then, even during the war, there had never been such direct damages. The only attack upon the city had been repulsed handily enough, and aside from raids, there had been little cause for fear. Now, however, there was much fear. Now, safety no longer seemed to exist.

"I'd like to say that you're wrong, Rena. I really would." He said at length, keeping a wary gaze on his surroundings. He had been with his guard down, like a fool. Never again. "You know what you're saying. Those magi I know who could cast so many spells, including a time spell, so well, are part of the Kirin Tor. Do you know what that means?"

"Too well." She answered bleakly, frowning darkly. "There's a great chance that the Kirin Tor, or most likely parts of it, is corrupt and has turned against Dalaran's laws and policies."

Traitors among the Kirin Tor. He had considered the possibilities, yet hadn't been able to fully face his own thoughts. Now, Khadgar had no choice. The proof was too clear to his eyes. He knew that the attacks they had launched had probably not killed anyone, and that it meant that the danger would stay the same.

It also meant that the underground movement, which had probably been at the heart of so many dark matters during the Second War, was far stronger than he could have imagined. Their resources were unknown, but so were their allies. They had the advantage of knowing who was who, something loyalists like Rena and he had no luxury of sharing.

Lines, lines in the sand. They were being drawn, and something dire would come out of it. Of that, Khadgar was certain.

"We must do something. Find some way to cripple that group." He muttered. "It can't just go on like this!"

"Leave that to me and Antonidas, Khadgar. You keep the Horde off." She tapped his shoulder in genuine affection. Something she rarely did in public. "You save the world. We'll save Dalaran."

He supposed he would have to do just that. The Alliance was fractured enough as it was. They didn't need to know that Dalaran might be breaking apart and tearing the Alliance countries as well in the process. Still, he wished that he could stay and help them all. And Rena especially.

Then Rena asked a question, and all of these thoughts were driven out as he took in how he could ever answer it.

"Khadgar, how did you know we were about to be attacked?"

* * *

Early Autumn 606, Grim Batol, Khaz Modan 

Zuluhed the Whacked – who actually had come to be known by the moniker for recklessness and not for insanity – considered the message carefully. His spies had been active keeping track of enemy movements from both Alliance and Horde movements. Both sides were showing important movements.

When the Horde had been broken at Blackrock Spire, most remaining northern troops were at Grim Batol. When Zuluhed had heard that many commanders wished to go on and fight the Alliance to the death, his more pragmatic mind had told him just how foolhardy such an action would be.

Even thought the northern remnants were numbered in the thousands, they had generally poor leadership and poor morale, which would have spelled certain doom had they fought the Alliance head on at the Dark Portal. Unlike many of his brethren, Zuluhed remembered the times before the Burning Legion, and retained enough wisdom in himself to convince most of the troops to fight with him.

They had taken hold of Grim Batol and roughly a hundred human miles in all directions, gathering whatever forces remained. Now, Zuluhed had a ready force of forty thousand troops, and was strong enough to raid the surrounding dwarven lands.

Althought his position was strong and getting stronger, Zuluhed resisted urges to strike at more vital targets. He could probably cripple the dwarves if he fought, but he couldn't hope to prevail against an entire array of opponent nations. He simply did not have enough resources. And so, he preferred to spy and gain information on his enemies.

Recent tidings, it seemed, were interesting. Events in Dalaran were getting darker, more dangerous, and it seemed that it would now take little for the wizard nation to blow into a full-blown civil war. The Alliance nations had lost much unity, and it might break apart within only a scant few years. But what was interesting was that all allied nations were shifting as much troops as can be spared towards the rebuilding Azeroth. Specifically, the Dark Portal.

The answer to that, of course, was in the second spy report.

"How reliable do you think this is, Nekros?" he asked his closest subordinate. He did not trust the younger orc – he knew well that Nekros craved power, and wanted to use the dragonflies more aggressively. Zuluhed had the impression that Nekros would try to kill him. Not that he cared much about that fact now. Nekros, for all of his ambition, was generally cunning and a good counsel.

He frowned over the messages now, absent-mindedly scratching his tusks.

"Well, Nekros?" he said more strongly. There were limits to being a patient orc, after all!

"It looks like Dreanor is launching a new invasion." The orc second only to Zuluhed said.

"Yes, it looks that way." The fallen shaman admitted. "But we both know how much troops are left in Dreanor. What would happen to the invasion?"

"It would cripple the humans and their allies a lot, but it would fail." Nekros said at once. "Even Ner'Zul's Shadowmoon Clan has limited resources. Strongest in Dreanor, maybe, but it was weak next to most Clans here, when we held sway to over half this continent."

Zuluhed heard the bitter edge to the sentence. It was something most orcs felt. The Horde had fallen far from what it had once been. Fifteen human years before the very day they now stood in, it had been an unstoppable force. And now, what were they? A broken people, forced into internment camps and holding only a small fraction of the territory they once did. But bitterness would not help, Zuluhed knew, and so he shook his anger away forcefully.

"So, an invasion would fail, as I knew it would. So, what could they be doing?" he wondered.

"Ner'Zul has a complex mind." Nekros said.

"And a twisted one. It seems that the Horde from Draenor challenged the Alliance at Nethergarde, where there was a draw." He left the rest unsaid: a draw was a strategic Alliance victory, since it was easier for it to strengthen itself on its home soil.

"But then we learned that Grom Hellscream of the Warsong Clan tried to make an alliance with old Grimfrost, and was rejected." That last came as no surprise. Grimfrost had hidden a part of the Horde away beyond the Wildlands, and had turned away all of the factions save, perhaps, for the small one known as the Hidden Valley Orcs. He simply couldn't see the more experience Grimfrost working under the rash Hellscream, at any rate.

"And now they're coming northward, towards us, trying their best to avoid the Alliance when we all know just how much the Warsong Clan loves bloodshed." He looked at Nekros, "It becomes obvious, don't you think?" he asked.

"It sounds like the invasion's a feint."

"And I think it is a feint. One during which Hellscream plans to raid the Alliance mightily." Zuluhed mused. "With those reports from our spies, it's the only thing I can think of."

"They're coming here?" there was agitation in Nekros' tone. Zuluhed savoured that, glad to still have the upper hand with the younger orc. For now, at least.

"They must know most of the Horde's remaining strength is here. I would do it. Wouldn't you?"

Nekros' worried silence was answer enough.

But for all of his apparent smugness, Zuluhed was also worried. He knew Hellscream, had known the young chieftain since before he HAD been chieftain. Hellscream would use the Dragonmaw's forces for his own ends, for Ner'Zul's ends. And since it seemed likely there would be no new invasion, he probably wouldn't care about what happened after the goal was achieved.

Zuluhed, however, cared about that very much.

His forces were mighty, but unready to try and renew any offensive. The unspoken truce between the dwarves and the orcs came mostly from weariness and many other troubles. If the Horde in Grim Batol became a problem, the Dwarves would take action. It was something he couldn't allow to happen yet.

There was no two ways about the problem: Hellscream had to be dissuaded from coming to Grim Batol and exciting the orcs there to a war they couldn't yet win.

"It looks like we'll have to use the dragons." He mused at last. Nekros, who had been thinking, started at the words.

"The dragonflights! Chieftain, you can't be serious! We can't depend on them, and the ones we're growing aren't mature yet!"

"We can probably…convince…their queen to have a few elder reds participate in warding Hellscream away from us." He mused, "With her power bound, we can still control her."

"Those elder dragons are a large part of the reason the Alliance isn't attacking us! Its madness!" Nekros said angrily. This time, Zuluhed's anger surfaced. He could take much from Nekros because of the orc's abilities, but the last comment came very close to open insurrection. He took hold of his staff, and with a word, magic slammed Nekros into a nearby wall.

"You crave my power. But you don't have it yet, Nekros. Remember that well." He said, and left the room quickly, dismissing the other orc from his mind, gripping an object in his hand. It was the object which Deathwing and he had crafted, the one thing which allowed him power over his second's schemes.

He walked from his personal chambers and war room, to a tunnel carved directly into the stone. Soon, he heard a deep rumbling, the breath of a beast of giant size, and of even greater power. The tunnel became a stone balcony, overlooking the great Dragon-Queen, Alexstrasza.

Even Deathwing wasn't so massive. The once-greatest of the Dragon Aspects was larger than a fortress, with massive, clawed legs, a huge reptilian head, and scaled skin sturdier than a steel wall. Had she not been bound, the Aspect could have nearly levelled Grim Batol by herself.

Yet, she HAD been bound, through magical, dragon-forged chains which covered her body and held the mighty creature in place, and by an artefact of great power, which Zuluhed now showed to Alexstrasza's baleful gaze.

They looked at each other with perfect, equal enmity, dragon and orc, until the gargantuan creature spoke.

"Are you here merely to gaze smugly upon me, orc?" she grumbled in a soft voice nearly as loud as a normal shout. "Or are you going to say what foul task you have in your twisted little mind?"

At that, the orc grinned. The Aspect had lost power and freedom, but it commanded great forces and still had its pride. He could understand that. It made things all the more interesting.

"I won't ask for much, this time." The chieftain said. "Yet there is a small matter with which I'll need some of your best people for, soon…"

* * *

House Swiftblade 

When Aerth Swiftblade, who would become a renowned hero in the Second War, married Eira Fregar, he was elevated by marriage to the nobility. Initially scorned for his common birth, his peerage became one of rights when he was raised to Baron by the then-Regent-Lord Anduin Lothar. Still, his house could not be official without royal consent.

Swiftblade eventually became one of the most successful war leaders of the entire war, and helped Varien Wrynn ascend to the Throne of Azeroth. It was there that the new King Varien made Aerth a Duke, putting the common-born man above all but the King and the Archbishop of the Holy Light of Azeroth, Alonsus Faol. King Varien also made House Swiftblade an official part of the House of Nobles.

House Swiftblade, having inherited the defunct House Fregar's wealth and lands, is today one of the most powerful in the Kingdom of Azeroth and its lands, because of the high ratio of First and Second War veterans living there, are among the safest in the rebuilding realm. Aerth himself, however, is rarely leading the house, being often occupied on tasks for the King or the Alliance. Thus Eira Fregar Swiftblade, a strong-willed woman of noble upbringing, watches over the young but powerful house in all but name.

* * *

Author's Notes: Everyone, I am SO sorry for the late chapter! My computer's motherboard decided to die suddenly, and I had to rebuilt the chapter from memory and my notes.> The next chapter, however, will be when it supposed to be, barring unseen events! You may notice that there's lots of talking these chapters. Be patient, battle is coming soon in Warcraft! 


	5. Chapter Four: Rage and Darkness

**Chapter Four: Rage and Darkness**

Autumn 606, Sunshire, Azeroth

In his life, Aerth Swiftblade had rarely felt so very uncomfortable when he rode back into the small, fortified castle he had become lord of a scant number of years previously. He knew that it had to do with the man who now rode beside him. And what might come of that very man meeting another.

He tried his best to hide it. Riding side by side, he tried his best to converse with his friends, often drawing up tactics and troop formations to push the Horde army at the Dark Portal back. Plans of invasion. Materiel. Supply lines. Unknown threats. Like a weary old campaigner – Swiftblade was wise enough to see that he wasn't the young man he'd began the Second War as – the commoner-born general talked of everything military which could be talked about.

In short, he was dancing away from sensitive subjects, and he knew that a man as intelligent as Rellon Minvare had noticed quickly, if not at once.

"He's going to be there, isn't he?" Minvare eventually asked, his tone carefully neutral. Swiftblade only looked at him evenly, and the older man shrugged, looking around to make certain that the few knights that Stormwind had sent to escort them weren't listening. "Turalyon. He's going to be in Castle Fregar, am I right?"

Yes, Swiftblade saw, Minvare had seen through everything, and had come to a logical conclusion. In a way, it pleased the Duke of Sunshire to see his friend so easily pierce through the veil. It showed that Rellon Minvare had not lost his abilities as well as the love he'd once felt.

"Would there be any point in lying?" Swiftblade eventually said, with a sardonic twitch to his lips. Minvare stayed as indifferent as ever.

"Given that we are about to go in your castle, I doubt it, my good Lord Aerth." Came the reasonable reply.

Again, the silence. The younger of the two warleaders vainly tried to find something to say to alleviate it, but found nothing. He couldn't defend Turalyon readily, couldn't actually defend him at all. The reason for it was that, when the time had come for judgement to be passed, Swiftblade had been among those who had silently left the chambers, refusing to see and hear something so damning.

He had come to forgive Turalyon. Minvare, however, had not. Perhaps, he mused to himself, could not. Swiftblade knew, for his part, that Turalyon had seen Minvare's leaving as a sort of weakness, and the paladin's stern opinion had been set negatively.

If he could do anything about it, he would do all he could to make certain he wasn't there when the two met. Ironically, he had arranged for that very thing.

"Father!" A voice shouted, and Swiftblade turned his head to see two horses galloping towards them. On one of them was a boy, sturdy and black-haired, wearing padded armor and a short sword, the other a man in heavier armour, who looked rather annoyed and spent. The shout, of course, had come from the lad.

"Welcome home, father!" The boy said as he came near. Swiftblade, despite the tense moment he had just been through, couldn't help but grin at the sight of the puffing, excited boy who reminded the greying general of himself. It was a normal fact, he guessed, with his own son.

"Well met, Vedran." He answered easily. "Romping the countryside? Found any trouble around our walls?"

"None, thank the Holy Light!" the knight – no doubt assigned as a bodyguard – said with a long-suffering sigh. "Not for lack of trying, either, my Duke."

Vedran Swiftblade gave the Knight an astounded, indignant gaze. The Duke understood what that meant: a Knight, of little rank by the armour, had no right talking to a Duke and a Lord-General that way, and certainly had no right to criticize the Duke's heir. It was noble upbringing. Although Swiftblade's beloved was, in most things, a golden-hearted person, she was also a noblewoman, and wanted her children to have a good upbringing.

And so his son was learning the ways of the noble even as Swiftblade had tried, in recent years, to give the boy some understanding of war and of the world. So far, the results had been rather mixed.

"Is Lord Turalyon here, Vedran?" Swiftblade asked to change the subject, "We have to meet him."

"Yes, father. He's talking with mother in your study." He said with an excited edge. To Swiftblade's embarrassment and slight dismay, it appeared the boy had inherited some of his looks and much of his yearning to make a name for himself with a blade.

His son saw him as a hero from embellished stories, where much of the hesitation, bad decisions and darker deeds went unsaid. Although he'd tried to tell the youth what the stories really were, he had never been able to burst the idealistic bubble. Maybe, he admitted to himself, he hadn't tried hard enough.

"Excellent. Lord Minvare and I will meet him." He gave Minvare a wry look. "Three of the four Lord-Generals in the same room. First time in three years." Ignoring the sullen expression Minvare sent his way, Swiftblade led the small group onward, taking pleasure in talking with his son.

They arrived to the castle and dismounted, whereupon Vedran quickly went to Minvare's side. Swiftblade gritted his teeth in consternation, yet there was little he could do about things.

"My Lord Minvare… you and father fought together a lot during the war, is that not so?"

"It is." Was all that the wrinkled, displeased lord would say. The final tone would have made most back off. It didn't stop such a thing as youth, however.

"They say that you won many great victories for the Alliance, almost as much as father did!" The youth said, and Vedran gestured to stop things.

"Now is not the time for that, Vedran." He snapped, more harshly than he had intended. "Let us find Lord Turalyon so that we may pool our strategies."

"There will be no need to look for him." Minvare stated sombrely, and gestured with his head in the castle's direction. Sure enough, Swiftblade saw the powerful paladin walking – or perhaps stalking – towards them.

'Here it goes.' He sighed mentally, steeling himself while quickly shooing his son away. The boy didn't have to hear the words which would no doubt be exchanged.

The two men – once trusted comrades – met for the first time in the full light of day. They regarded each other stonily, with little expression save for what might be disdain for each other. As far as Swiftblade was concerned, that disdain hid what was certainly loathing. Yet none would show weakness to the other.

"Lord Minvare. I will need your help in pushing back the Horde." Turalyon said at length. There was no welcome in his tone at all.

"Yes, so I have heard." Minvare replied icily. "I return for the sake of one for whom the Alliance was everything, and for one I respect. I will help you for these reasons." The paladin frowned at that.

"You have no choice but to serve. It is your responsibility."

"As I said, I have two reasons for coming here." The cold voice of the indifferent general whipped out, "Responsibility is something I fulfilled long ago. I see that you are every bit as self-righteous as you ever were, Turalyon."

Turalyon was a paladin, vowed to obey strict rules which condemned anger. He was powerful as a paladin as well, second only to Uther Lightbringer. But where Lightbringer forbade anger, Turalyon used it. Swiftblade saw it battle within now, and feared what would happen if the situation escalated. As such, he stepped between them.

"My lords. These are my lands. If you would be so kind as not to fight in them, I would be pleased." he said in a soothing voice. "And I will remind you that twenty thousand orcs are amassing at the portal. Let us think of a way to defeat them decisively. Then, and only then, will you be able to talk about such things as past mistakes and grievances."

The two generals gazed at each other, and for a moment the enmity was no longer hidden, but burned in cold blue eyes and placid green ones. It was a powerful moment, immediately gone. It left behind a feeling of dread that Swiftblade couldn't shake.

"You are right, Lord Swifblade." The paladin said at length. "The Horde is our first concern. This," he gestured to indicate what had been left unsaid, "Is of no consequence."

"It is of consequence to me, High General." Minvare said thickly. "But I admit that the Horde comes first. Let us then make an end of all this."

The men followed Swiftblade's lead into the castle. He spotted Eira as he entered, and both exchanged a look which, while as loving as it ever was, was full of concern. The two men had met each other, and there had been no real damage done. Both knew, however, that it could not last.

What would happen when Turalyon finally no longer stood with Minvare's defiance? What would happen when Minvare's anger came too strongly to contain?

And what, by the Holy Light and all that was good in the world, would Aerth Swiftblade do when he was caught in that particular event?

* * *

Autumn 606, Black Morass, Wildlands

He had known this would happen. It had been as clear to his one remaining eye as the sun now shining down upon him and the dreadful situation he was in.

When Ner'Zul had sent a large army to surprise and destabilize the humans, possibly allowing the Black Morass to come under Horde control and thus be used as a staging ground, the old chieftain had expressed a large amount of doubts. It had become clear to him that Ner'Zul, although intelligent and wiser than most orcs Kilrogg had ever seen, was underestimating Alliance response greatly, while Grom Hellscream was blinded by his lust for battle.

The old chieftain had argued, and his arguments had fallen on deaf ears. A force of thirty thousand orcs and ogres was sent. It had been deemed a 'fresh' force, free of the 'defeatism' which veteran warriors had. It had also been freed of any meaningful battle experience against the humans and their allies.

But Kilrogg was too old to argue long. He had conceded defeat, watched the troops departed, then gone to his old fortress at Auchindoun and worked on rebuilding his holdings.

And then, as he had expected, he had learned that the invasion force hadn't fared all that well as had been expected by Shadowmoon's warlord, which had led the old shaman to grudgingly admitting that Kilrogg's experience might be very helpful. He had been all but ordered to go back to the human world, and take command of the forces there, leading some four thousand troops in reinforcements – all Shadowmoon could put together.

He faced the new faces – young orcs who had been little more than orclings when he had first gone to face the humans' Kingdom of Azeroth in what humans seemed to pompously call 'The First War'. They were angry orcs, raw with the need to fight and avenge their losses, overwhelmed with frustration.

"We should give a full assault on these humans! If we break them at one point, we can destroy part of their forces!" one had growled, banging his fist on the rough table. Grunts of approval had resounded.

"Interesting." The Bleeding Hollow's chieftain had mused wryly, inwardly groaning at such simplistic tactics. "And if we concentrate on breaking one part of the army, do you think that the rest of it won't take that opportunity to strike at us by surrounding us?" His wry, sneering voice had only irked the much younger orc.

"They won't, chieftain. I've seen these 'humans' fight. They fight well only because of their thick stone walls and their fortresses." The young commander had said in disdain. "I'll lead two thousand orcs and eighty ogres to break up the humans and confuse them, and them we break out.

There had been so many things the old orc could have said at that point, most of them condescending. None would have mattered. The young orcs had not seen themselves being pushed back to the Portal as a failure, or even as a setback. He had decided to let the young orc attempt his manoeuvre.

The attempt had been a disaster. The humans had not broken rank, as so many orc commanders had thought, but had managed to hold their ground, while a large mounted force flanked the orcs and began to engage it. Within very little time, the horde forces were almost surrounded, and Kilrogg forced them to retreat back. Over three hundred troops did not return, having themselves caused less than two hundred deaths.

"I want that to be a lesson to you all!" he had told the disgruntled Shadowmoon warlords. "You don't understand the humans. You don't know how they act; you don't know how they react. They're not as weak as the puny Draenai, even if they look soft and vulnerable. Now, follow my orders from now on!"

"And if we don't?" a young orcs had asked. A moment later, his head had flown away from his body, decapitated by Kilrogg's quick strike.

"You don't, and I kill you, if the humans don't do it first." He had growled. There had been no more grumblings. He hadn't felt good about the orc he'd killed – something which bothered him, since he had forged his clan through prowess and physical might as much as cunning. The human world, Grimfrost had once told him, affected them all strangely.

But he had no time to spend contemplating his newfound reluctance. Taking control firmly, he formed better sentries, and sent the veterans who had come with him to train the orcs as best they could. He'd sent the few trolls with him to spy on the enemy, and those which returned gave him some useful hints: the Alliance forces were smaller than the Horde's, they had a rather hodgepodge command, and their supplies weren't very high.

However, the trolls also reported that the Alliance was sending a large force, made up largely of either veterans or of fresh troops, as reinforcements. If the numbers the chieftain had heard were true, the enemy would go from twelve thousand to over sixty within little time.

He had to act. Now. While the advantage still remained to his people. He had more troops, and good supplies. But he would have to move quickly. To that effect, he decided to surprise the Alliance.

Leaving one thousand orcs to cover the Portal and their path home, Kilrogg led the remaining seventeen thousand towards the Alliance. Ogres flanked the troops to protect against knights, while their catapults pummelled the enemy ranks relentlessly. The orcs charged at the center of the enemy lines. The Alliance, he saw, began to move to outflank the packed army.

"Now! All forces, to the right wing of the enemy!" he shouted, and horns sounded, as well as the shouts from orcs given command of smaller bands. The large force, as such, began to turn right. It was then, and only then, that Kilrogg ordered the orcs to charge with all of their might.

The Alliance left had been right in the middle of redeploying - an understandable, but costly mistake. Their defences not ready for the onslaught, it almost disintegrated from the sheer charges, human ranks breaking, attempting to reform, chaos blossoming even as the Horde forces mercilessly came down on those too slow with a vengeance.

Kilrogg knew that he couldn't waste the opportunity. He sent orders for the catapults to keep the enemy ballista occupied, and began to attack the central parts of the enemy army from the flank. Humans and dwarves and elves clashed with orcs and ogres in a violent maelstrom of blood and steel, but the advantage of numbers, surprise and brutality gave the Horde a decisive upper hand.

The chieftain smiled to himself, even as cut down a human soldier down with a swift blow. Turning tactics were things he had learned to do when fighting the humans, as was the fact that troops had to always move quickly. His tactics were also bold enough to ensure it could do serious damage.

Some enemy warlords – or generals, as the Alliance liked to call them – that Kilrogg had met in combat, could have withstood such an assault, even seen through it. There was the now-dead Lothar, Minvare and Goldenhorn. He had also heard of the mastery shown by ones such as Turalyon, Lightbringer and Swiftblade. None of these leaders, it was clear, was present.

"An outnumbered, awkward enemy, unused to orcs using good tactics." He summarized to himself. "I can do what I want with them."

An orc came running to him. "Lord, they're trying to regroup through the right part of the army!"

He nodded: that was to be expected. If he left them enough time, they could recuperate and allow their forces time to set up new defensive lines. It was something he couldn't afford to let happen. He had to take hold of the region surrounding the portal, or it would be impossible to send further troops.

"Have the ogres hit them from the flanks, but keep enough for our own defences!" he ordered.

Already, some of the Alliance lines were reforming, especially at the right wing. There, it seemed, a force of footmen were making ravages against those who tried to attack. From what little that Kilrogg could see and hear, there was an almost orcish quality to the ferocity shown there.

Despite it, the old chieftain knew that the battle would be his. The Alliance's position was fast becoming untenable. If they stayed, they risked losing most of their army.

Eventually, however, things didn't quite go the way the Horde would have preferred. Although the left wing had been all but destroyed, and the center was in shambles, the right Alliance wing had managed to find a ridge from which defences were already set up. Bolstered by remnants of the rest of the army, they managed to hold on through the rest of the day.

By nightfall, both sides retired from the battlefield, taking most wounded with them. From what Kilrogg gathered, they had lost many hundreds, with hundreds more wounded, but the Alliance army had nearly a third of its forces unable to fight. It was a great victory, and even the old chieftain felt the old blood burn as they celebrated the victory.

The victory, however, proved to be short-lived, even shorter than the old orc had foreseen it to be.

For one more day, they further eroded the Alliance from its remaining positions, until it held only by the skin of its teeth.

But then, suddenly, a new army arrived. It appeared that Kilrogg Deadeye would be seeing if Rellon Minvare had lost his strength or not sooner than he wanted.

* * *

Autumn 606, Violet Citadel, Dalaran

Entering Dalaran's capital, Uther Lightbringer couldn't help but to feel a chill running down his spine. It wasn't because the city was sombre, far from it. Nor were people from the city a particularly inhospitable lot. It simply came down to very simple basics: in this city, arcane powers ruled, and all that was divine and priestly had little place.

It wasn't that the people of Dalaran did not worship the Holy Light. As with every other human nation, the Church of the Light had become the prominent religion, one which went beyond borders and, in some ways, afforded some measure of political and religious peace of mind. There had been little in the way of religious upheaval, after all, for well over four centuries.

No, it wasn't about worship, or devoutness. It was about feeling. In Dalaran, and mostly in the Violet Citadel, the former acolyte to Alonsus Faol, he felt very far from what gave him strength, far from the Light's reach. It was a disquieting feeling.

Yet, it was one he would bear with. He had been summoned to this place by none other than Khadgar, whom he considered an honest and honourable wizard, for aid in a special matter. Having accepted to come, the paladin wasn't about to simply turn back because he didn't feel very good.

His arrival did make some impression. Although humans from all nations made up the large majority of the Order of the Silver Hand, most came from Lordaeron and Azeroth, while only very few came from Dalaran. With his large warhammer, his armour and his Silver Hand insignia, Lightbringer cut a strange figure, drawing many embarrassing mutters and stares. He sighed upon hearing some: a divine devotee in the city of the arcane thought, it seemed, unsettled people quite a bit.

Ignoring it as best he could, he asked for directions and eventually came to a plain, squat tower. He raised an eyebrow: for some reason, he'd expected more of dwelling for one of the world's greatest archmages. Spotting the door, he dismounted and knocked, feeling somewhat self-conscious.

"Yes?" came a voice he recognized as Khadgar's from inside.

"Khadgar, it is me, Uther." He answered simply. No need for more, he knew. He nearly jumped out of his boots when a door opened – in the nearby wall, revealing Khadgar.

"Ah, lord Uther!" he exclaimed. "I am very glad you came! Come, come, we have much to talk about." With that declaration, the wizard motioned him to follow inside the strange entrance, which kept the paladin staring for a while.

"Wizards," he grunted at length, "Why by the Holy Light can't they do things as other people do?" Despite misgivings, he followed and entered Khadgar's abode.

The feeling that he was in a world not like his own only deepened as he entered what should have been a relatively small abode. Instead, it was as large as some of the largest noble mansions in Whitefort. He passed chamber after chamber, following a corridor lit by bluish-white magical globes, until he entered a foyer where, a great fire burned in an intricate fireplace.

There, a library lines much of the walls, the ceiling went far up, and silent shapes seemed to move about carrying this thing or that, sweeping the floor, or doing under things that a manservant would do. It was the first time that Uther Lightbringer had entered a wizard's place, and he felt he could do without from now on until the end of his days.

He wasn't the only invited guest, he saw. In the room, seated in comfortable chairs around the fire – which the paladin regarded dubiously – where a woman of slight build dressed in arcane robes and an old man dressed in similar fashion as Khadgar's, except for a purple signet ring which signified him as a member of the Kirin Tor. Uther, having fought the Second War by many powerful spellcasters, knew them both.

"Lady Delado, lord Antonidas." He mused, "I greet you, and convey the sympathies of His Eminence, Alonsus Faol of Northshire."

"Always proper, like all paladins are, Sir Uther." Delado said in her usual soft but spirited voice. "I am quite pleased to see that you're well."

"As am I. But, as Khadgar here will attest," Antonidas mused, "Good health may not be staying with us much longer. Please sit down, friend paladin."

Feeling increasing discomfort, fighting it off quickly and doggedly, the warrior-priest of the Light did just that. Not wishing for wine, he accepted a cup of water, and was shocked when one glided towards him. It was a certainty now: wizards made him edgy.

"What could be so dire, that you need a paladin to hear it?" he asked "If it is an arcane matter, there is little I can do about it."

"There is, Uther, there is." Khadgar said. "And now that the Horde has resurfaced in the south, we need your help more than ever. You see, something dark is stirring in Dalaran. If we're right… this magocracy may fall into civil war."

At that, Uther almost strangled himself on his drink. "By the Light, are you serious about this?" he cried, coughing, "A civil war here? At this time? With the Horde at our door once again, with the nations of Stromgarde and Gilneas all but seceding, the elves all but gone…"

"It'd be perfect." Antonidas sighed.

"A weakened Alliance, with its forces and its best commanders fighting the Horde once more." Delado nodded. "Don't you see? If they start a civil war now, with our resources stretched as they are, and they succeed here…"

Uther thought about it quickly. The Alliance was holding together largely through the efforts of the five nations which still held to its commitments. As long as all five stayed together, the Alliance would endure and influence the continent, even of some realms seceded. But it was all a careful balance, and if Dalaran opted out of the Alliance, then Kul Tiras might pull out, and Azeroth might decide to concentrate only on rebuilding.

The Alliance might well fall. With the threat of the Horde still quite present, it was a bleak thought. There was no Lothar to unite the continent this time.

"Why would they do this? It would be suicide for them to make a civil war now. Even if the time is ripe as far as forces go, they'd disrupt so many lives, unleash so many dangers. We are just beginning to get back on our feet…"

"They don't want destruction. They want control. And if they gain power over all of the magical might that the Kirin Tor has hidden, they could do what their puppets of the Grand Compact couldn't do."

"The Compact!" Uther exclaimed. This day was full of revelations.

"Yes, I believe you know of it well. Sylphord Duraz, one of our best generals, tried to overthrow the Alliance and failed during the Second War." Khadgar said urgently. "We knew he had magical help to be able to do it so well. We think that this shadowy faction in Dalaran may have been manipulating him, trying out some plans."

"If you're right," Lightbringer mused, thoughts racing, "Then these people sacrificed thousands to try out some plans. The sheer ruthlessness…"

"That means they have no qualms, no concern about costs. They might be willing to do far worse than Duraz ever dreamed to achieve their goals." Antonidas said. "Some mages have been killed. Others have disappeared. Whatever is to happen will happen soon."

Uther's thoughts raced. Although brought up for the cloth and more interested in either martial or religious matters, he had been around the Alliance long enough as leader of the Order to understand how politics went. If a civil war succeeded in Dalaran, it might lead to something very dangerous.

"Do you have proof of any of this?" he asked at length.

"If we had, the Kirin Tor already would have acted to stop things. No, we don't. But our suspicions are backed by enough facts for us to make a good guess. One is that there are cells outside Dalaran's borders. Factions like remnants of the Compact."

"And you want my help for this?" Uther muttered. "Why me?"

"Because, if you find proof and report it, people will believe you." Antonidas answered, stroking his beard.

"A pawn for Dalaran?" He grunted. He didn't wish ill to the nation proper, but he wasn't about to become a wizard's plaything."

"More like our confidante. Our informer. Someone they won't be able to corrupt" Khadgar sighed. "I will soon go and join the war in the south. I need someone I can count on. Uther, I know this goes against some of your beliefs. Will you help us?"

Uther Lightbringer stayed silent, closing his eyes.

He really disliked wizard. They really had a way with bringing trouble of the worst kind when it wasn't needed, and a way to say the right words to make someone dance to their tune.

The paladin sighed, opened his eyes.

And nodded.

* * *

Autumn 606, Black Morass, Wildlands

'When angry, find a suitable outlet for it. Do not let it make you weak or consume you.'

Minvare's father, a Knight of Azeroth of very good standing and the Minvare who had been first raised to the peerage, had been very fond of the saying, just as much as he loathed those who let loose their fury upon that which did not deserve it. His father having died several years before the First War shook Azeroth apart; this wisdom had been all he'd had to cling to.

It still held today. And so, the general focused his loathing, his despair and his rage, and found a target only as soon as his forces had crossed the mage-held portals.

It had been a feat of magical skills and logistics. He, Swiftblade and Turalyon were still tensely talking about possible plans of attack, when a messenger arrived, having been magically sent by the highest mage left in the Dark Portal's army. The army was failing, he had said, and it would not hold on long.

It would have normally taken thirty days to send significant reinforcements. Turalyon managed it within days. Minvare had to admit, for all of his hatred of the man, that the stiff-necked paladin was a great organizer.

Mages were called to Swiftblade's castle, and went to gather all of the groups or armsmen, soldiers, archers and Knights which they could. Using their magic to exhaustion, they gathered a force of just over ten thousand, with enough food and materiel for one single large battle.

Two days passed as the three generals and their officers tirelessly trained the mismatched group. On the third – on that very day that Minvare now looked out from – the mages opened multiple, temporary portals, and the army struggled through the openings to arrive barely two miles east of the main battlefield. Without pause, Minvare ordered the army to move forward and, when near enough, ordered a full charge by cavalry and infantry.

Perhaps because their magical might had been on the decrease even during the Second War, or perhaps because there had been some carelessness involved, the enemy hadn't prepared for an attack from the east very well – a fact that the morose general did not let pass. He ordered archery salvos into the thick of the enemy, and personally led three devastating charges before settling to observe and command the troops.

"Have we been able to connect with the remnants of the previous army?" He asked at length, looking out from his Longview. One of his aides – a middle-aged captain with more than a hint of elven blood in his largely human face – came forward.

"Barely, milord. We only have three small units making the junction." He said.

"Send one hundred knights to cover them, and a division of troops to strengthen them. Once that's done, send a messenger telling their remaining commanders that I will be taking command until either lord Swiftblade or lord Turalyon arrive." He turned to another aide. "How many spellcasters do we have?"

"Less than a dozen. Most are being used to round up the forces the High-General and the Lord-General will bring to the battle, so we have few."

"Gryphon riders?"

"Twenty-three, milord."

Minvare clenched his teeth a moment. "So few? Well… at least the enemy doesn't seem to have any dragons, so keep the riders in check for now. We will use them only when the time is right." He did not pay attention to the salute, but focused his energies on the battlefield again.

The Horde troops had been surprised, but had recovered well. They struck cunningly and swiftly, and it came to be known that much of the bloodlust was being channelled quite well in this instance. There was no doubt that a skilled commander was in charge of the enemy forces – these were not the inexperienced campaigners that Swiftblade had held off at Nethergarde.

The redeployment showed itself to be quite justified, as the footmen units operating the tenuous junction were soon under attack. Only the force of Knights arriving and a stout defense by Khadgar's elite infantry unit prevented both forces from being separated and losing momentum. Soon, however, the junction was fortified as footmen and archers began arriving.

From what Minvare's expert eye could see, the two armies were now roughly equal in number. The Horde had the better position, but Minvare's forces were fresh and had more energy to spare. The two sides would not be immediately able to take the upper hand.

A draw was not exactly what Minvare had in mind, however. He fully intended to do his share of damage before he was relieved of command. It was an emotional reaction, he knew, and not the wisest one. However, he felt he could do little else.

"I want the Knights on the far right of the line to go on a full flanking manoeuvre, aided by our archers. At the first sign of weakness, one of our reserve units will make a raid and attempt to destabilize their own flank." He mused. "If the flank caves in, we will be able to take a definite upper hand, and hold it until the other forces arrive."

His aides looked at each other, hesitant. Minvare gave them a cold look.

"You all have orders. Make arrangements to carry them out."

"But, milord, the enemy left flank has been reinforced…" one of the aides attempted to say.

"Yes, and by that, they are overconfident. I trust that they will not expect a thrust at this point in the battle."

They were hesitating still. A bit of the ire the general was keeping in check finally came through.

"By the Light, you were not picked for sluggish movements, but because you are experts in getting orders done. I have given you orders. Now, carry them out at once!" he growled, his fist clenching on the Longview. 'They've become so…useless… my love. How could you have given your honour and life for their folly?' he thought savagely.

The orders were given. The Knights moved… and only half of them charged. Minvare couldn't believe his eyes.

"Who is commanding over there?" He roared. He ignored the looks he got for that. His plan was to have all of the Knights attacking, not half! Whoever that one was, he would not be commanding for long!

"Ah…um…Commander Marcus Jonathan, sire. General Swiftblade said he's one of the best cavalry leaders he's ever-," An aide began helpfully.

"I don't give a rat's tail about whether he's good enough to take on the whole horde with fifty knights or not! Tell that fool to advance, or else I'll…" It was then that he noticed the fresh Horde force coming from the south. Only a few hundred strong, they nonetheless were able to push behind the charging knights, attacking them from behind.

Before he could come up with a counter-strategy, however, the knights wheeled about, even as the other half charged the newly arrived orcs. The enemy who was about to be encircled, was encircled. Although a few ogres were present, the bulk of the new force was made up of grounded orcs, and was easily scattered. The knights then quickly regrouped, and charged as they had been ordered.

It had happened very quickly, but not quickly enough that Minvare couldn't have seen many of the details.

"He predicted it, or saw it coming." Minvare mused, in frustrated wonder. "That was a good one, I have to admit it."

But there was something else involved in that. The manoeuvre was to distract the enemy long enough for Minvare's forces to gain a sort of upper hand, long enough to ensure a strong position when the other forces finally arrived.

But if his thrust had been caught in such a way, it could have destabilized his own flank, and weakened his position. He might have been on the losing end of the battle instead of the developing stalemate.

As hard as it was to swallow, as angry as he felt about the thought, that commander out there had just saved him from what could have been an embarrassing defeat, made from what appeared to him now, as a reckless move.

"That's the problem, is it not just?" he asked himself softly, "Turalyon was always stiff and by-the-book, Swiftblade bold and unorthodox, Eltrass swift yet precise. I was the patient one, the slow but deliberate mover, who struck only when it was right. Where has that gone?"

It wasn't the easiest question he had ever asked himself. This was a needless uncertainty about his own abilities. And Rellon Minvare, until three years before, had always been a man certain of what was back, and ahead.

He had changed, he realized. But was it for the better?

* * *

Autumn 606, Darkfire Mountains, Shadowmoon Clan Territory

Deathwing flew over the Draenai lands, surveying the realm that the Horde had conquered and taken for itself. He saw some things which pleased him and others which did not.

On the one hand, the orcs had succeeded where even the Kaldorei of old had not. At its height, the first great elven empire had spanned over three quarters of the known lands, while many of the eastern lands – where the humans and dwarves would rise in particular – were left generally wild, and only had a few surveys.

The next empire which rose to great power on the warped Aspect's world was the Arathorian Empire, which held sway over much of the eastern continents. Yet that mighty nation had been only a glimmer of its ancient elven predecessor.

The orcs, however, had laid their grasp on their entire world, and few areas were actually not subjugated. The Horde's massive power could be seen in the way resistance to their necromantic rule had been smited. The great dragon relished the potential cruelty and violence involved.

Even within the darkness of his long-fallen mind, however, Deathwing could see that, as admirable as the conquest had been, it had also given way to more problems.

The orcs, after all, had been populous and mighty when they had finally finished destroying – or just about – the Draenai. But it had left a society geared entirely for conflict, able of little else, without an enemy. The recourse that the blood-hungry clans had thus taken was unsurprising, to say the least: they had simply fought each other, beginning an endless cycle of wars and battles.

Gul'Dan had tried to prevent his race from shattering from within by striking a deal with the powerful, tainted Guardian, Medhiv. Massive amounts of troops had been sent, as well as endless supplies and settlers, to battle the humans and, eventually, most of the major powers in the eastern lands. That large invasion had been, in the end. Ironically, it had been Gul'Dan, who had made it happen, who had been instrumental in the fact that it failed.

'Now, what is there to see?' the Aspect pondered.

Dreanor was still in the hands of the Horde. However, the might which had achieved it in the first place was now largely gone. The forces that Ner'Zul could bring to bear against the human-led Alliance were less than a tenth of the might Doomhammer had had at his disposal. If the fool shaman had been able to send that entire might over, it might have given a very satisfying war to the Dragon's eyes.

But Shadowmoon did not control the Horde. It led it, but other clans were at the sword's edge of open revolt, forcing Ner'Zul into a precarious position, and making certain that only a much smaller force could be sent against the humans.

It didn't really matter, though. The attacks would have consequence. His human contacts had been very talkative into the fact that the Alliance High Command was about to launch a bold invasion of their own, to placate the Horde threat more definitely.

The very thought of it overwhelmed Deathwing with satisfaction. The humans were being goaded, the orcs were being goaded, and a new conflict was erupting, it fit his plans most perfectly.

"Ner'Zul thinks of himself as shrewd," he chuckled, "If only he knew that he's but a pawn in plans centuries in the making, in which he's but one of the numerous changes and variables."

He was flying over Shadowmoon lands, crossing over the perilous mountain ranges teeming with both orcs and other, even wilder, monstrosities. Even before he arrived in sight of Fortress Shadowmoon, a group of three black dragons came forward to greet him.

"Lord Deathwing, O Magnficient Progenitor." One said, ducking its large head respectfully. An older black, that one. Proper, respectful. Kept at bay only by the Aspect's greater powers. A female favourite for all of these reasons and more. "You honour us with your mere sight! May your wings carry the win wherever the darkness grows!"

Deathwing grinned as much as his draconian form allowed. Wry amusement, he had found, was easier shown on a human face. He was certain, for instance, that the female would not hesitate to slay him and take his place if he ever wavered in either body or mind. Such was the way he had brought his race to his way of thought, millennia ago, when he was still the idealistic, weak-willed fool dragon who was named Neltharion.

"May your own wings ever smother the light, and your strength ever grow, Enelthraxia." He answered almost ritually. "So, how goes our flight in the Horde lands?"

One of the younger blacks, a male, was very vocal in his own opinion on that matter. "These orcs are even more stupid than the humans!"

"They're boring. They fight, but that's all they do! No imagination!" The other black, a female, added.

The flight began to move towards Fortress Shadowmoon, now looming in the distance. Enelthraxia kept her silence, until the two older dragons were father away from their younger brethren. Some discussions, after all, couldn't be serious if children were involved.

"The youths may say it crudely, Magnificient One," she told him, "Yet I am certain that most of our people think the same. The orcs are... rather... stale."

"Stale?" Deathwing asked, wondering at the word. He wouldn't have used it himself in order to describe the Horde. "They're the most chaotic people we have yet met. Even the corrupt Kaldorei, even the trolls, never came close to this taint."

"But they're almost too tainted." The female objected, bold as ever. "Their souls are so corrupt that they can't think of anything else BUT war. That is not unsettling in itself, but it makes understanding them and the orcish people in general too easy to understand. In other words, they are physically amusing, but mentally..."

"But, mentally, they are stale." He finished with a rumbling chuckle. "I see what you suggest, my dear. Yet, that makes them very easy to manipulate, easy to deal with. They fit in my plans almost perfectly."

"Your word is, as ever, our law." She answered dutifully. Deathwing waited, feeling that she wasn't finished. She wasn't. "However, you should know that our alliance has made that old orc rather...arrogant."

"Arrogant?" it didn't surprise him, but there was some strange indignation in the elder female's tone. "How is he arrogant, exactly?"

Yet she seemed reluctant on replying. He insisted, letting some of his frustrations show. H e was about to shift from frustrated to a more demanding posture when she craned her neck downward, towards the orcish fortress, its large walls and defences now clear to see. A young dragon was approaching. Deathwing soon saw that he was carrying an orc warrior, who was himself carrying a Shadowmoon standard. The sight itself, for some reason, annoyed him already.

The dragon stopped, obviously profusely nervous, while the orc exuded nothing but confidence. The latter didn't say much, but it was more than enough.

"Ner'Zul commands that your dragons help our forces at the Portal." Came the order, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to order an Aspect. The other dragons immediately cringed, fearing their leader's reaction on the matter.

Deathwing, for a moment, almost though that the command was a jest. The next moment, he realized that this was precisely the kind of mindset that Ner'Zul had: an old orc of admittedly strong magical talents, who thought to create an empire far beyond his reach and who yet had a deep fear of the Burning Legion. The order, however, was an insult. And Deathwing realized he had a point to make with the old shaman.

"Tell Ner'Zul…that we will attend the battle." He said, spitting out every single word. He refused to see the wonder and deception in the younger dragons, but clearly saw the confidence that the orc fairly oozed. The great Aspect turned in flight and began to fly away, calling the three dragons to him.

"Gather all of our people that can immediately be gathered." He ordered. "We will attend Ner'Zul's foolish little farce.

"Magnificence, we can't just let that filthy orc walk all over us!" One of the younger dragons roared in indignation. Normally inclined to correct disrespect, the dragon Aspect once name Neltharion gave a rumbling chuckled as deep as ten wells.

"No, we can't. I said we will attend. I said no more than that." He answered simply.

Treat the Black Dragons as his personal plaything? The old orc was becoming too arrogant already.

It was time for Deathwing to give the shaman some elements on how their relationship would work.

* * *

Autumn 606, Black Morass, Wildlands

Turalyon could hardly help in gritting his teeth. The situation was in no way a magnificent one. Although the High General and Lord-General Swiftblade had both managed, through the efforts of men, logistics, and very substantial magical aid, to bring five more thousand men to the battle, it appeared that the two sides were caught up in a struggle of pure attrition.

Because of the added strength, the Alliance enjoyed numerical superiority. The Horde, however, enjoyed the better position and was well-fortified. Swiftblade had told them his opinion as soon as he'd seen the battlefield.

"Even if we win this, we'll be paying such a price in blood that victory will scarcely be better than defeat." He had said.

"And yet we cannot retreat. We cannot allow them to control the Portal." Turalyon had answered.

"Of course not. But we will suffer a heavy toll. Unless more troops arrive, which seem unlikely."

Reinforcements, of course, would not arrive soon at all. Although more forces had been marshalled in the northern countries of the Alliance, the large amount of magic used to transport fifteen thousand troops had drained the area of most of its ambient magic, rendering the area magically weak and unstable, perhaps for days, maybe for weeks. At best, it would take twenty days for any substantial forces to reach them.

The battle would never reach ten days. Turalyon knew that the forces he and his two subordinates had would have to do.

"Milord, General Minvare's wing is being forced to retreat by an enemy charge." One of his aides told him.

Turalyon cursed, a rare event for the pious man, but his anger simply could not help but erupt a little. Indeed, he could see with naked eyes that Minvare's forces, to the left were not drawing backward, slowly being outflanked. 'What sort of sluggish deployment is this?' The general asked himself in frustration.

"Send the closest available units to reinforce Minvare's flank. Send orders for the general to hold on to his terrain." He said tersely. He then looked towards Swiftblade's position, and saw that his other subordinate was moving his units fluidly, with bold moves and counter-moves, holding his ground well, and even gaining at some points.

Both Minvare and Swiftblade were –deservedly, in the paladin's opinion- hailed as military geniuses. They had both won stunning victories in the Second War, and had earned respect from friend and foe. However, whereas Swiftblade's talents were as vibrant as ever, Minvare's efforts lacked heart, and showed none of the patient, nonchalant and confident attitude which had been key in many a skirmish or battle.

'And I fear that I know the reason for that.' He told himself. 'Trice-curse the fool for letting his emotions get the better of him.

The problem was, of course, that Turalyon didn't feel like he could blame the man. He could still see the foolishness of the people in Stromgarde, the Alliance's easy agreement and selection, the trial and its consequences, sequences that Turalyon had had to pronounce as High General of the Alliance.

Turalyon's own faith had been badly shaken in those days.

But he'd held on for what good the Alliance could do. He had believed that not all was blemished. He had accepted Minvare's anger, but not his abandonment. To the paladin, duty and honour meant more than his own, personal feelings. He touched the sword at his side: the Lionguard, Anduin Lothar's sword, now his. Turalyon had followed his instincts then. It had cost the greatest man the Alliance had ever had his life.

Never again.

"General!" One aide said, forcing the general out of his murky thoughts. "Dragons!"

Dragons. A word which had often filled many with terror throughout human history and beyond it, it caught the High General's attention. Within a moment, he could see what his aide was telling him, and his own heart, although in no way inclined towards cowardice, was filled with dread.

Easily over fifty flying shapes – black dragons if Turalyon's eyes and longview were worth anything – had appeared through the Dark Portal, and were taking position over the raging battle lines. It was a terrible sight, and the last which the Alliance needed at the moment. In his heart, Turalyon knew that the balance had been shifted in one direction in that one stroke.

"Send out the Griphon Rider!" he shouted, while knowing that they only now had eight such riders in their whole forces. Still, the paladin intended to fight for as long as it was humanly possible. "Tell every archer to prepare for possible counter-strikes!"

Turalyon would have said more – no matter how slim the chances were – when something he had not thought to see occurred.

The dragons did plunge them, diving at great speed, and breathing fire from their mouths. However, they did not strike at the Alliance lines, which was reeling backward, or the Horde, which was moving forward. Instead, the black dragons unleashed their fiery might against what had served to fortify the Horde's position.

Wooden towers burst into flames; huge wooden pikes were flamed, and then crushed by mighty feet. In the back, the catapults which had kept several Alliance strikes at bay were destroyed utterly. The attack had a pinpoint accuracy to it: there were light losses even on the Horde side, but the dragons were leaving them increasingly open.

Confusion spread in the Horde ranks as the warriors there slowly realized what was happening. Yet, perhaps out of fear or uncertainty, no meaningful attempts were made to stop the destruction. Rushing just outside, the bulk of the Alliance troops watched in shock as the incredible situation unfolded.

It was, the paladin realized, as if the dragons were making a point to the Horde.

Then, even as the orcs and ogres and scattered trolls were seemingly beginning to react, the dragons rose together, and gathered over the largest dragon that Turalyon had ever seen. It was a sight he had witnessed once before, during the fateful battle at Blackrock Spire.

"Deathwing." He muttered. The gigantic dragon had merely observed, and now it turned, back towards the portal, his entire force following him quickly. Within mere moments, they were gone.

Confusion reigned in the Horde ranks, while the Alliance forces seemed to be more surprised than anything else. Orc and Ogre units seemed to move without a sense of direction, and the powerful lines which had been constructed and held the Alliance at bay had been blown open, removing the advantage the Horde had, and actually, perhaps temporarily, shook their command structure.

Before Turalyon could order his forces forward, he saw that Swiftblade's men were advancing. The boldest of the three leaders in the army, it was no surprise that Swiftblade had taken advantage of the golden opportunity at once. More cautious, Turalyon himself could see that they couldn't refuse what fate had seemingly given them.

"General Swiftblade is absolutely in the right here!" he cried, and the High General grinned despite himself at the idea of inflicting damage on the Horde. Such thoughts were unbecoming of a paladin, he knew, yet there was nothing he could do about that emotion. All he could do was channel it into will.

"Attack!" he ordered sternly at last, "Ballista are to break up their ranks, while the Griphons make strikes from the air. My order to all commanders and unit leaders: archers support the infantry. Knights in front, full charge. Have all units begin a full-scale assault upon their lines! All forces, attack!"

There was no hesitation in the orders, and they were followed up quickly. The men had seen what had happened, and seen Swiftblade's forces beginning to encroach on the Horde forces. They joined the fray with a furor surpassed only by the blood-curdling madness which had taken the Alliance after Lothar's death.

Turalyon saw, even as he mounted his own steed to join the fray that Minvare's forces moved well after the other two. He scowled. Minvare had not fared very well in this battle. He would have to talk with the man. Whatever his grievances, he had accepted to return to duty, and his duty he would have to carry!

"I don't frankly care if people like Swiftblade or Muradin Bronzebeard personally vouch for him, if he's become so very lax in his abilities!" he growled. Then, taking hold of himself, the paladin chased away the negative emotions, locking them in a small corner of his mind.

The Horde defences had been almost entirely decimated. Without catapults to keep the ballista at bay, what remained began to fall, even as most orc and ogre units began to break up, fleeing towards the portal, while a core held out. Most began to rally to that solid core, and the Alliance advance was slowed much.

But it did not stop.

Within an hour, victory was firmly in sight, whereas all had been in question before. Turalyon knew, even as he joined the fray, that this would never have been achieved without the dragons's unforeseen aid.

Why had they aided? What was the omen of this? The paladin could not tell, only wonder.

* * *

The High Elves: Mysterious Origins

The ones called the High Elves by most, and 'Quel'Dorei' in their most ancient tongues, were once part of a greater nation of elves, a greater people. Over the centuries, humans and dwarves have tried to piece together elven history, and came to the conclusion that, once upon a time, a great schism occurred in the first elven race, who appeared to be taller, purplish in tones, and worshipping a deity called Elune.

No one was ever able to learn how and why the schism occurred, and it is possible that the High Elves themselves have now forgotten it. What is certain is that a large number were exiled and, through a perilous journey, came to what is now Lordaeron, before relocating to Quel'Thalas and founding their civilization there.

By the time the High Elves and the Humans became allies, the elves had changed to become much similar to men, and eventually found much-needed religious succour in the Holy Light, breaking all ties to what they once were.

Yet, questions remain? What was the Schism which divided the first elves? What culture did these first elves have?

And, most importantly, do they still exist at all?


	6. Chapter Five: Renegades and Stowaways

**Chapter Five: Renegades and Stowaways**

Autumn 606, Black Morass, Wildlands

Swiftblade had always found that Turalyon, in many ways, was far more warrior than priest. Although the man was a Paladin and upheld the scriptures of the Holy Light, he also had a way about him – and ability to become angry – which put some of his divinely-inspired Order in unease. That angry, emotional side of the otherwise highly competent man was shining through now.

"Have you completely lost your light-blasted mind, Minvare!" he shouted, and he took old of the somewhat smaller man roughly. "You want to get us all killed?"

Swiftblade looked around a bit anxiously. It wasn't as if the three were alone: some soldiers and several commanders had been convened, and looked shocked by the absent camaraderie and the hostile wind. He couldn't blame them, he found.

Marcus Jonathan was giving him appalled looks at times, and the older soldier couldn't help but shrug. This was, he knew, something which had been inevitable from the moment the two former comrades had met.

"There was a mistake in my plans." Minvare replied coolly, "I made an error in judgement, which is normal."

"You fairly went out of your way to show just how incompetent you are becoming!" Turalyon replied, utterly unappeased, "I knew that what happened two years ago had made you bitter. But this is completely ridiculous. No, not ridiculous, it's blasted dangerous! Your actions and counter-attacks were sloppy, ill-advised, and ill-prepared. Because of that, we nearly lost the battle! Thousands dead and wounded! Many are on your head now!"

Minvare roughly disengaged himself from Turalyon's grip, and fixed the paladin with a restrained, angry look. The two locked gaze to the immeasurable discomfort of the onlookers. Swiftblade, himself, felt thorn by the matter. On one hand, Turalyon was doing too much by pinning losses on a single man. On the other, however, the bold general had to admit that the tactics and troop movements he had seen weren't up to Minvare's Second War standards.

"If I may," he said at last, and he felt his own frustration pierce in his voice. The Horde was liable to come barging on them any day, and here they were all, talking and squabbling like lowly, apprentice squires. "I think that assigning blame is unimportant now. We neared defeat, true, but we managed in the end."

'Through draconian help.' He finished wordlessly, yet he knew most assembled in the room were thinking the very same, troubling thought. The black dragons had attacked the Horde forces savagely, weakening them enough for the Alliance to break through shattered defences and push the enemy to the other side of the Dark Portal.

"How are the men, Commander Jonathan?" he sighed when the two men seemed to barely get calmer. Perhaps happy for some sign of normality, the younger officer quickly began to report on the situation. Swiftblade only listened with one ear, however, watching for signs of the two calming down. It came, slowly, and both eventually turned a reluctant, tense look towards the speaking man.

"And so, from what my cavalry and scouts report, we'll be up to forty thousand, maybe forty-five, within a tenday at most. And we should get additional units and militia after that." The man finished.

"Good. Excellent. If we weren't dreaming about those dragons reaving through Horde troops," Turalyon said at length "Then we should be able to hold out until we are strong enough to make our own move on Draenor."

Someone gasped, and there was nervous murmuring at the news. Swiftblade had been one of those few privy to the plan – being second-in-command of the army and a senior member of the Alliance High Command helped, to be sure – but the news had been kept secret even from those of Commander rank. Many of these were upset at the idea, he could see.

Turalyon didn't miss the hesitation. Casting one last, bitter glance at Minvare, he rallied himself and called for quiet. Where he had, mere moments before, been angry, now Turalyon was peaceful and diplomatic, his voice soothing and reassuring. The change was startling, and reminded Swiftblade of some nobles.

"Please, don't be too concerned. We will not enter Draenor until our forces and supplies are gathered. I won't try to hide the danger and tell you it will be easy, but we will manage this for our collective future."

There was a faint snort of sort coming from Minvare, and this time it was Swiftblade who glared. 'This is no time for those bitter antics of yours.' He thought savagely. 'Perhaps bringing him back was actually a mistake. What light-blinded foolishness!' Turalyon, however, did not rise to the bait, and kept soothing the troubled tempers.

It didn't completely work. Turalyon was a good man, and an excellent leader. He was respected, even admired in some circles. But he was trying to fill shoes which were, the common-born general feared, too large for him. No one could have filled them fully save for Anduin Lothar.

Yet, incomplete as it was, the trust was there, and when the meeting disbanded, the troubles seemed to have lessened. Swiftblade, however, stopped Minvare from leaving. The younger of the two general had other troubles to deal with.

"What happened to her, my friend, was unforgivable. That was that." He told the former ambassador to Khaz Modan. "Your actions just cost us good people we'll need soon. That, too, is unforgivable. That, is also that."

"Don't presume to judge me, Swiftblade." Minvare said coldly. For a moment, the younger man was taken aback by the very tone. The next moment, he gathered his strength and ire to face the bitter man he had once thought a good friend.

"You light-cursed fool! You had men killed because you feel bitter about things, and you have the gall to give ME orders." He snapped, "Shake yourself out of that incompetence, Rellon, or you're no longer of any use to anyone. As far as I am concerned, you're shaming her very memory!"

He'd said too much, then, and he knew it. Yet he didn't – couldn't – take the words back. Angry at Minvare's darkened mind, at Turalyon's inflexibility and at his own meddling, the general stalked away from the meeting tent and went hunting for his own, possibly leaving an old friendship breaking apart. Soldiers fairly leaped away upon seeing his face, and he tried hard not to look too threatening.

"Do we have some bottles of wine left somewhere?" He grunted to one of the two guards.

"Milord?"

"The wine," he repeated, "Are there some bottles left?"

"Err…I think…I think so, milord, but…"

"Go get me one. Now." He snapped, and entered the tent, sighing as he unbuckled his sword. 'I have to be careful there. Minvare's rubbing off on me too much. Or maybe it's this entire situation.' He reflected.

There was some wine left after all. After getting it from the guard – and giving the guard a bit of money for the service as an unspoken apology – Swiftblade sank into the chair in front of his desk and maps and poured himself a full cup.

There was noise outside. At first, the man ignored them. Then he realized that they were nearing the tent and that his guards were asking for the person – or the group, as the case seemed – identify themselves. There were many words exchanged, in a definitely worried tone.

'Light!' he wailed inwardly 'Will this horrible day never end?'

He listened to see if the noise might go away. No such luck, it seemed. He was displeased to see the head of what appeared to be an officer – a lieutenant by the markings – poking into his tent.

"Milord, I'm sorry for troubling you this eve, but there's someone here…"

"Of course there is, lieutenant." Swiftblade said acidly. "There always is someone or something to see." He took hold of himself. No use getting angry. "Very well, what is the trouble then?"

"We caught a child amongst the newer provisions. Stowed away, looks like. We caught him and so-"

"Forgive my interruption, but why not give this for your section leader to handle? It is not the first case we've had."

"Well, milord." The man seemed to squirm in hesitation. "The lad says he knows you…quite well. He says he comes from Sunshire and that –"

The officer didn't get farther than that. Springing outside, he found himself faced with guards surrounding a young man of thirteen, slim and with a face which seemed a rough approximation of Aerth Swiftblade's father at a far younger stage. For a moment, the Lord-General was struck dumb as he recognized Vedran Swiftblade, heir to Sunshire and of House Swiftblade.

And then, at that moment, the Duke and General both bowed out, leaving only the common soldier who always lay beneath the surface.

"What in the blasted Light's good name are you doing here, you addled boy?"

* * *

Autumn 606, Fortress Shadowmoon, Draenor

Ner'Zul was beside himself with fury. He who had tried so hard not to be affected by his people's self-inflicted curse now gave in to it fully as he glared upon the black-haired, black-garbed human form of the traitorous dragon leader.

"My men didn't lie!" he shouted, and the walls shook with the menace in the shaman's voice. "They saw you! You attacked our forces and destroyed their defences! Because of you, my strike force was easy prey for those humans and their allies!"

The accusation didn't seem to reach the transformed creature. In fact, it appeared as if the one called Deathwing was enjoying the chaos he'd caused. Ner'Zul couldn't believe he'd ever trusted the thing.

His plans were still feasible. He'd prepared for his forces' defeat, and had prepared several contingencies. But the defeat had come faster, and had been more complete, than he'd imagined it would be. The situation had spiralled out of his control. Of all the things he couldn't forgive the dragon, that one was the worst.

Ner'Zul had always been in control. Even with Gul'Dan and his Shadow Council, even with the demons like Kil'Jaeden. No matter what, his plans had always come through, through his years-long preparations.

But now, this. It was unforgivable!

"Because of you, we've just suffered a severe setback to our plans! Don't you realize that?" he snapped. The dragon only shrugged, idly looking at some Horde flags and carvings, still seated.

"What I understand is that your goals, and mine, are not quite the same." Came the mild answer. "I couldn't care less about that sort of setback. As long as the hunt is good and I am amused, the rest is foolish to me."

That was more than the aged shaman could take. 'How dare he act like the Warchief, like he's above me, Shadowmoon's chieftain?' He took old of his skull-topped staff and faced the idle creature.

"We made a pact. You broke it when you turned against me. That means that you can't be allowed to live!" He began speaking words of power long forbidden on his world, long before the demons came. The dragon regarded all of this stonily, a smile plastered on a ruthless face.

"Broke the pact?" the human-shaped dragon said. And then, before Ner'Zul could unleash his magic, it attacked.

In all of his life, the shaman had never seen such speed. One moment, he was ready to cast magic on his subordinate. The next, he was dangling above the floor, held in a grip stronger than the strongest iron, powerful magic attacking his own and throwing him out of focus. Ner'Zhul was shocked, and could only look in the dragon's unrelenting eyes.

"Broke my pact with you?" the dragon mused, "There are some things that you do not understand, little mortal. I have seen a world at its birth, I have seen countless eras and countless conflict. I have watched and waited and gained strength throughout the many millennia. What is your pact next to that?"

"You agreed to help me!" he gasped despite himself. The old orc tried to free himself, but it was like the hand was bounded to him. The grip squeezed, and Ner'Zul felt himself growing faint. He tried to call for aid, yet couldn't. The magic he felt wafting from the pink-skinned creature was suffocating in itself.

"I agreed. I gave my aid." The creature hissed. "You should be on your knees thinking me for that favour, your decrepit orc. Your kind was always repulsive to me. But I helped you. And all that to see my ancient people used like your little grunts!" There was a growl which couldn't have come from any normal, orc-like throat. It was deep as a well, and more menacing than a hundred maddened ogres. "See what happened to your people as a warning never to presume too much, 'chieftain'.

Ner'Zul found himself released, and sprawled to the ground, gasping and coughing. He couldn't do anything as the shape bent towards him a final time.

"Never forget, Ner'Zul."

And then the suffocating, eminently dangerous presence was gone, in a flurry of dark wings and darker magic. It took a moment before the shaman fully regained his senses.

When he did, he released his rage and embarrassment upon what lay in his chambers, smashing everything he could – chairs, chests, tables, pots, mugs, anything at all. It was only when he had destroyed nearly everything around him that reason began to edge back inside his mind, until it took control.

"Remember." He said in a voice which shook with hatred. "Oh, I'll remember, dragon. And ever you will regret what you did here!"

"It would seem," a hollow voice said, "That Deathwing is as temperamental as he ever was. And as self-absorbed." A stench of decay came from the darkness at the corner of the room, coalescing into the putrefied form which held Theron Gorefiend's soul. Normally, the undead warlock made the old shaman uneasy. Not today. Today, it just made him angry.

"You were there already when Deathwing had me in his filthy grip." He snarled. It wasn't a question, but a fact.

"Yes, of course."

"And yet, despite your own oath, you did nothing."

"Chieftain." came the hollow-sounding, eerie reply, "Didn't you feel Deathwing's power? Even if I had acted then, I would have been easily sent to the Great Dark Beyond to await my final fate. Dragons are powerful, yet the other blacks pale before him. No, Chieftain, there was nothing to be done."

What truly irritated Ner'Zul was that the Death Knight was right. He HAD felt the dragon's power, and vowed never to underestimate it again. He would never lose control of the situation again.

"I see what you mean, I suppose. Not that I find it pleasing." He retorted with an effort. "So, you want me to simply forget what happened here?"

"No, chieftain." Gorefiend said calmly. It was strange that, in death, none of the spiritual violence remained of the undead warlock's original self. It was distracting to Ner'Zul's mind. "Rather, you just have to remember that power, and work around it. Dragons must have their own weaknesses, after all, even a fabled Aspect."

The old shaman considered that. "I heard that you captured another of these so-called fabled beasts. Zuluhed's work, wasn't it?"

"That is so, chieftain."

"But you had help. From Deathwing. His powers weakened hers to Horde magic. We don't have that might."

There was silence, while the undead orc and the elderly one considered that fact. Ner'Zul, during that time, finally managed to get his temper and his indignation under control. Mostly. Imagine, to control an entire world, and yet to fear a beast's power. It was more than the old one could bear!

"There is one source of power. The one whose spells fit into your plans. The one who created the Portal." Gorefiend said.

"Medhiv." The shaman mused. "Yes, that could be what I need. Not only to further our plans, but also to teach that arrogant beast something about reality. I've heard most of his greatest works were contained in one spellbook. Have you finally found something about that?"

"It was difficult. But there are humans ready to sell anything for greed, or out of fright, as I have found. These told me that the object I described had been taken in Stormwind Keep itself, guarded by the human wizards there."

Ner'Zul couldn't help but grin in satisfaction. The knowledge that one of the artefacts needed to further his plans was within reach almost made the fallen shaman forget himself. Finally, after all these years! Finally, he'd be able to escape the noose tightening around his neck. It was all he could do to keep himself from rubbing his hands.

"Good, good!" he exulted. "This makes even that dragon's defiance almost worth it! Can it be taken?"

There was an unmistakable note in Gorefiend's voice as he answered which made the shaman wonder if the bloodlust had really been lost by the orc's death. "Of course. They are weak and no match for us."

"Then go. Slip through the human lines, confuse them and enter their precious little keep." Ner'Zul grunted. "Then take what we need from their soft, weak hands. Once we have Medhiv's power under our control, even their vaunted Alliance will be no match for us!"

'And then,' he vowed silently 'when the humans lie at my feet and I have control of our destiny, I will remind that cursed dragon that it is foolish to underestimate even an old orc like me!'

* * *

Autumn 606, Black Morass, Wildlands

Danath eyed the work critically. With a grunt, he thrust it back into the youth's hands, who staggered a bit from both the force and the weight. The dwarven sword nearly fell to the moist ground, and only a desperate muster saved it from that fate.

"You call that cleaned up? Bah!" the greying veteran growled to the young man, "I've seen trolls that can take care of weapons better!"

Had it been told to a normal young man, the insult would probably have been taken with reluctance but no actual hostility. But Vedran Swiftblade, although a solid lad like his father was – Danath could see that much – and rather honest at that, belonged to the nobility. Born after the then-young general had been raised to the peerage, he was a full-blooded noble with famed parents and the upbringing that could only come from the last Fregar.

In short, Vedran was a nice but ultimately snotty noble brat.

"I did the best I could, Lord Danath!" The youth sulked angrily, "You're the one asking the impossible!"

"The impossible? Cleaning up a sword?" the muscular giant scoffed, "A brat like you got nothin' on what's impossible or not. I've seen impossible things to do. I've seen that father of yours do them anyway – and succeed! So don't come here talking about impossible things! I don't think Lord Aerth'd like it much, the way he is, no?"

There was only sulky silence, and Danath grinned wickedly. To say that the elder Swiftblade had been unhappy to see his son was akin to calling a volcano hot. From the accounts of the soldiers on the scene, the general had stared at his son murderously, before thrusting the youth inside his tent and loudly proclaiming his rage, whereupon Danath had been asked to show the rebellious, naïve youth how the army really worked.

And work the boy had, from cutting wood to putting up tents, to patching armour to cleaning swords, from carrying meat to the cooks and water to the priests. There had been a strength in the boy, but also a mounting, high-class indignation.

"This is unfair, Lord Danath! I'm sure father never had to do all this!" The young man accused.

"Oh? I didn't? Well, I obviously told my years as a footman and squire to the wrong child for the past thirteen years!" The general said as he walked over. He looked both amused and highly irritated with the boy. Faced with his father, the boy's combative mien washed away quickly.

"Father…" Vedran began.

"Enough, boy! Be silent! And be thankful this is your only punishment! It pales before what your mother will do when you come back to Sunshire!" The general turned to give Danath a firm stare. "Make sure your men are ready. We'll move out within the hour."

An excited thrill ran through the veteran soldier's body. He knew just what that order meant.

"So, it's come to that." He said. He couldn't keep the gleeful edge off his voice.

"It was inevitable. We both know that. They're probably not ready for us. We have to use the momentum. So, get your people ready. I'll have them up front."

"We wouldn't like to be anywhere else, general." Danath said at once. He had never meant something just as much as he did at that moment.

"Excellent, commander. Go at once. Be ready." And then the tone turned angrier, and more fatherly. "Now, Vedran, you're on the last wounded convoy going out to Azeroth. You'll be there and stay there, or so the Light help me…"

Danath didn't bother to hear the rest. He was already making his way across the camp, to a clump of tents which had the fist of Stromgarde on top and a cleaved orc head at the bottom. It was the flag of the band which had grown from the Second War's elite heavy infantry under the large warrior. There, survivors from many battles, filled with a desire to fight the orcs for the thrill of it, had formed Danath's Hordecleavers.

The warriors in that band had long stopped fearing much aside from that of idleness. They weren't soldiers who wanted to fight for either king or country first and foremost. These were men who wanted to fight the Horde because there was excitement to it. This was something that the distant cousin to Thoras Trollbane could relate with. This was his true home now.

Men were there, sprawled, playing cards, training, oiling weapons, or simply stirring a cookpot. Ordinary actions, yet there was an energy about the place which told that these men were eager for the campaign, eager for the coming battle.

"Listen up, lowlives! The general has some orders for us!" Danath bellowed.

It was something they had been waiting for days. At once, gazes turned to the commander; weapons and cookpots were discarded, and within moments Danath find himself surrounded by eager-looking men, young and old. One of his captain spoke first.

"New orders? General Swiftblade never misses a chance for a fight. Never seen him stop yet." He said.

"And he hasn't now." Danath said, grinning. "The orders're simple: we're goin' in. The Alliance forces are gonna gather all they can, and then ram right through the portal before the greenskins get to fortify."

"And lads," he added, seeing the spark in their eyes, "We'll be the first to ram into Draenor. The first line to meet the enemy!"

They whooped at that. They cheered at that. This was something that suited them just fine. Where another company would have sobered at being first, the Hordecleavers embraced the idea gleefully. Danath knew, without a doubt, that Swiftblade chose his people for that very reason: they showed no fear, and thus inspired the lesser soldiers.

But that didn't matter. All that matter was that they were going to have a good fight.

"We'll make sure that the orcs get some real fright when we go at 'em!" One soldier exulted. Others growled and cheered their agreement.

Even as the men went to prepare their weapons and armor for the coming battles, a lithe figure strolled towards the large warrior. Although not nearly as built or as tall as Danath was, Alleria Windrunner had an air about her which spoke of experience and great fortitude. Although not one prone to give his respect easily, the human man had always trusted the brooding elf.

"So, you heard." She said. Rather sombrely, he thought.

"Of course. My men and I've been waitin' for something like this for a while now. Finally, we're going to may a foray to their home! I have to admit it gets my blood boilin'."

"You humans." She smirked, "You live such short lives, and yet you always seem ready to shorten them further."

If it had come from an ordinary elf, Danath might have reacted badly. As it was, however, he was simply surprised at the increased vehemence in Alleria's tone. There was something beneath the words which made the veteran uneasy, however.

"What's the trouble, ranger?" he asked gruffly, frowning, "You and I've been around long enough to know that this was bound to happen at some point, the sooner the better. Turalyon and the other generals made the right decision here."

"I know that much." She answered in irritation.

"Aye? For a moment there, I wasn't too certain of that, ranger. You don't sound too alright to my ears." Nor do you look it, he added silently, noticing her tense features.

She was getting worse, he realized soberly. The veteran had never had much information concerning the matter which was eating at his comrade, slowly making a strong and proud ranger into a bitter shadow of herself. It was an elven matter, it seemed. And the elves had been keeping secrets long before mankind had ever built its first civilized cities.

"Whatever happened to you, the orcs are largely to blame, right?" He asked. She didn't answer, but did not rebuke him. Encouraged, he plunged ahead. "Well then, how about settling some matters with them? As long as you elves live, you have time aplenty to settle things in Quel'Thalas."

At that, she gave a chuckle. It was laced with bitterness still, yet it was something that the woman rarely showed anymore. "If only it was so simple, my friend." She told him.

"I don't think anything's simple, ranger, but I'll tell you one little truth: I don't let things like that wear me down. I've my own pride, and my own goals." He locked gazes with the elven ranger, even as he surveyed his men preparing enthusiastically. "And now, my goal is to make certain that when the Alliance strikes, the blow'll be as hard as it comes. What's yours?"

She kept her gaze locked, then looked away. Khadgar sighed, and then shrugged. Knowing that he had said what he could on the matter, the warrior went to rejoin his people. There was a war to be waged.

He didn't intend to have a grim elf deprive him of the satisfaction that he was about to fight soon, was he?

* * *

Autumn 606, Grim Batol Plains, Khaz Modan

The troops met on the broken fields near Grim Batol. The desolate place had been chosen because of its remoteness – the dwarves were uninterested in the poor, vacuous area – and because of the fact that its flat terrain allowed for few deceptions. It was the perfect meeting place for the leaders of the Dragonmaw and Warsong clans.

They sat staring at each other across a fire, the elderly shaman and the young blademaster, with only two body guards each. Of course, elements from their respective forces were waiting barely ten minutes from the very site, and the dry, empty valley would be soon awash with blood if things ever came to blows.

Something which might well happen, Zuluhed mused, if the younger Hellscream didn't learn to soften his tone.

"Ner'Zul's power is by far the greatest in the Horde! By rights, he is your leader!" the younger chieftain said for the eighth time.

"And I'll repeat my answer: the only flag that the Dragonmaw Clan will follow is that of the Warchief! Now, as far as I remember, Doomhammer is still alive somewhere, and hasn't relinquished it. Until he does, Ner'Zul has no authority here!"

"Doomhammer!" Hellscream scoffed, "Doomhammer has led us to defeat! He doesn't deserve your loyalty!"

"GUL'DAN led us to defeat by betraying us like a fool! Doomhammer still has respect here! Ner'Zul only denied us troops and supplies. If he wants my respect, let him do something to EARN it!"

"You go too far, old one!" The younger chieftain growled menacingly. Having faced the likes of Doomhammer, Blackhand and Gul'Dan when in a rage, the old orc remained unimpressed.

"Maybe. But you don't have enough strength to do anything about that. You have fewer supplies. Your males are tired. My troops have dragons and know this terrain better. Do you truly want battle between our clans?" The shaman challenged tersely.

For a bewildered moment, Zuluhed thought that the furious blademaster would push things to exactly that, something which would only serve the humans and the dwarves in the long run. With a very visible effort, however, the chieftain whose fighting skills were known to be amongst the best of his generation calmed himself and settled back. The relief among the small group was palpable.

"Of course not. Battle between our clans would be wasteful and stupid." The chieftain said, breathing hard. "What I don't understand is why you don't wish to strike at the humans after the defeat they gave us!"

"That's where you're wrong, Hellscream!" Zuluhed snapped, coming to his feet, eyes ablaze. "I want to make the humans suffer! I want their proud little cities and villages to burn until nothing is left of them. The same for the cursed elves and the damned dwarves! But I know better than to bring war back to them right now. As damning as it seems to you, they are stronger than us now! We must bide our time!"

"A coward's way." Came the sullen reply.

"No! The way of one who has lived here long enough to know the ways of this world!" Zuluhed challenged.

"Will you help me, or will you oppose me?" Hellscream challenged, coming to his feet in turn and staring down at the old shaman. "I intend to strike at the Alliance quickly and retrieve the artefacts I've described. I have the men, but I need food and some means! Don't we both fight for the Horde? Don't you want glory to be ours again?"

Glory. That was the word that every orc loved more than most. The younger the orc, the more important it was. Zuluhed, however, had seen pride and a desire for glory and power destroy the unstoppable warmachine that had been Doomhammer's army. Glory had been theirs. But it had failed them all in the end.

The shaman knew that the young orc in front of him was seeing things through eyes which had not seen the defeat firsthand. It was a simplistic view, but so devoid of real burdens that it was something to be envied. Zuluhed found himself rather jealous of the other chieftain. He thus only shook his head and sat down.

"You're a chieftain. I am a chieftain. I will help you as much as a can because of that." He then pointed a gnarled finger at the blademaster. "But I won't swear my clan to Ner'Zul's service. He's another chieftain, not the Warchief of the Horde."

For a brief moment, Hellscream pondered that statement, surprisingly without the usual anger behind his eyes. 'Here for so little, and yet he already feels it? The bloodlust ebbing away?' It was rather hard to believe. But if a warrior like Grimfrost had managed to forsake the curse, if those who had followed Grimfrost had…

"I hope you're not thinking of making Grimfrost's new clan pay for turning its back on the warchief." A twitch told Zuluhed all he needed to know. "Don't be a fool. I heard they tamed some of these wyverns as mounts, and they have resources and experience. Don't overreach yourself. What is it you truly need…for your true goals?"

Again, that strange silence. It didn't last long, however.

"Warships. I need ships to occupy the Alliance long enough for my people to do what needs to be done. And I need dragons. Ner'Zul sent none with me. Shadowmoon is hoarding its strength."

'Much like I do. Sensible. But, knowing the orc like I do, he's keeping the strength to himself because he's frightened of losing his grip, his supremacy. Ner'Zul… as if I could swear myself to HIM.' Zuluhed thought in contempt.

"Warships. Now that… that's no small thing to ask. The king of Kul Tiras has done his best to destroy our fleet at Crestfall… but… I do think that some ships have survived. Hiding here and there. Not many. Twenty, thirty ships are all I think we can gather now. It'll never hold out against even one of the main human lands, not to mention Kul Tiras."

"It doesn't have to. All I want is for it to buy me some time. What I'll need, more than ships, are dragons."

"Not mine. The reds I control because of the magic holding their Aspect. They'll never follow you. Blacks, however…"

"They already work for Ner'Zul. I've seen them."

"The younglings probably don't. I know where they are situated. They're not as good as the adult dragons, but they should serve you… if you can convince them to." Zuluhed noted. For some reason, he felt that the Warsong chieftain would be able to do exactly that.

The younger orc wasn't all that convinced, he could see. He could feel the hesitation and the suspicion, the same that pervaded the entire race of theirs as far as the shaman was concerned.

"You suddenly want to help me a lot." Hellscream said, sitting down at last. "You give and ask nothing in return. Why, old one?"

"Who said that I didn't get something out of it? I give you the information, but I keep my troops and dragons to myself. And I get you to leave my people alone." The shaman explained with a wrinkled grin. The other orc leader considered that silently.

Different from the previous Warsong chieftain, that one, the shaman decided. The previous chieftain, Tonarg Deathfist, had been an excellent fighter but an orc of unending bloodlust, having a true lack of intelligence.

Hellscream had come from a better, cleverer lineage. After all, Zuluhed remembered that it had been Hellscream's father who had brought what wisdom Tonarg possessed. That wisdom was there, albeit damaged – 'damaged! Since when do I see it as 'damaged'! – by a need for battle and glory.

"Clever, old chieftain. I can see how you maintained your rule this long." Hellscream admitted, "But you're a fool if you can think that Ner'Zul won't seek to become Warchief and force you to submit."

"Yes, that's Ner'Zul's way." Was the calm answer. "Bah, don't look at me that way! The seasons went seventy times by the way humans reckon things. I'm old, and I have been fighting and I've known people since well before you were born. Maybe that orc will become Warchief, but I don't think he can hold the Horde together. He's too proud, and he's far too selfish, just like his former apprentice."

"I can't believe that." Hellscream said fervently. "Ner'Zul knows things. He will see our people back to true glory."

Zuluhed let it go at that. He had his own plans for the Horde. One day, he would reorganize them in Azeroth and visit death upon the humans. And then, he would go to Draenor with his flights of dragons and his mighty, experienced warriors.

"We will see one day." He mused, more to himself than to the younger orc.

'And then, Ner'Zul, who shall be the stronger this time?' he thought with an inward chuckle.

* * *

Autumn 606, Black Morass, Wildlands

Vedran Swiftblade tried to find a way that he could talk his father into reconsidering his decision. Looking into the greying man's face, he found an implacable wall which would accept no compromise. Vedran was going back with the empty supply wagons, and that was that.

He looked up at the general as they walked towards the wagons, passing through the camp. He opened his mouth to argue one more time, and felt the hand on his hand tighten ever so slightly. Stern eyes looked down at him.

"Don't even try, son." Was the only warning he received. It was said in the coldest voice that he had ever heard his father use towards him. Vedran closed his mouth sullenly.

It wasn't fair, is what it was as far as the youth of thirteen thought. He'd come all that way, cleverly bypassing the security through intimate knowledge of how a watch was done, all to finally see what his father did. And when he finally succeeded, his father couldn't wait to chase him away.

Well, it wasn't entirely true, he had to admit. He hadn't told anyone of his plans. He'd gone out of the castle and sneaked past the guards, never being noticed. With a certain sense of dread, he feared in what state his mother was, and just how dire the punishment might be. His younger siblings would never let him forget it, he was bleakly certain of that much.

But still…! I had been worth it. Even though it made his father furious, and his mother worried. He'd seen what a real armed camp was from the inside, not from afar as he'd seen as a child. The fires and fears of the Second War were shadowy and indistinct to his mind. This, however, was the real thing.

He'd found it dirtier and rougher than he'd expected. Fights erupted here and there. People laughed hard, shouted hard, drank and gambled in sometimes rather crass quarters. Vedran couldn't see his famous, powerful father ever having mingled with the lowly soldier. He couldn't see Aerth Swiftblade laughing roughly with uncouth men, around a simple fire.

And he wasn't about to even consider some of the food he'd seen.

But the men, as uncouth as they were, didn't fight when his father neared. They sometimes shouted coarse greetings and oaths, lifting goblets or giving a respectful nod. The proud knights in their armour bowed to the general, the dwarves offered to share in some ale, and the elves curbed their usual arrogance. The gnomes…well, they acted like gnomes, Vedran supposed.

"Everyone here respects you, father!" he couldn't help but burst out proudly. A rumble erupted from Aerth's throat in response.

"They respect me because I respect them. Human, elf, dwarf, gnome… if they fight in my army, they get my respect. That's what makes a general different than a glorified bandit-lord." His father muttered. No, the ice hadn't been thawed at all. Still, Vedran couldn't help but interject something.

"But it is only normal, father! You win the battles, and you are a Duke! It is normal that these commoners respect you!" Vedran said.

He knew that he shouldn't have spoken that way at once. The hand on his shoulder flexed painfully, and the youth grunted slightly. Although the pressure wasn't meant to hurt – not once had he seen his father, a rather formidable fighter according to some soldiers – ever be violent with his mother, himself or his siblings. The pressure, however, told of acute displeasure.

"Is that really what you believe, Vedran?" Aerth asked sternly. Vedran was surprised at the troubled undertone in it.

"Well, f-father…" he hesitated, "That is the way things are, is it not?"

An angry sigh at that, a mutter vaguely having to do with nobility in general, and then his father was telling his personal guard – two knights as big and as tall as any orc – to wait a moment, dragging him a few steps aside, away from any of the myriad clumps of soldiers.

"Now, listen to me, Vedran. This is important." Aerth commanded. The youth frowned at the tone, but nodded nonetheless. "Now, the first thing you need to learn is that, in this army, there is no commoner and there is no noble. There are only soldiers. Only that, Vedran."

"But father-"

"Be quiet and listen!" he snapped. "Your grandparents, my parents, were commoners. Good people, with good character but little in the way of wealth or status. I might have risen up through the ranks because I can lead men well enough, and I was certainly lucky to ever meet your mother, whom I cherish. But my blood is that of a commoner. I haven't forgotten. Make certain you never do."

That was a little much for Vedran. He'd heard the stories, of course. He'd heard it when he was younger, and as he grew up. Jealous nobles who talked about Aerth not truly being anything but an upstart who has the friendship of powerful people. A lucky commoner who scored lucky victories. These voices never spoke near army commanders, or in front of Aerth, with whom they were fawning and friendly.

His father, himself, had often told Vedran and his other siblings about his own parents, and had even once showed them the inner workings of the large clock in the main dining hall – much to their mother's shock. But all of the stories, all of his father's simpler manners and more direct talks with servants and soldiers, none of that had convinced Vedran that his father was anything but a well-meaning duke and outstanding general.

It didn't quite take now. Maybe because he saw it, or because Vedran didn't answer, Aerth shook his head in frustration.

"You've been raised in a noble household all your life." The man said, "And I can't blame you for thinking that way, since I wasn't there often to change that. But this just proves, to me at least, that you're not ready at all for what war means to people. It's not glorious and it's in no way something to boast about!"

Vedran was about to answer that, when he noticed something from behind Aerth. A shadow moving from the darkness of the nearby tent. And from that darkness...

"Father! Behind! Knife!" Was all he found himself squealing in horror.

His father reacted the moment the words were out, and he pivoted even as the blade descended upon him. It was too late to stop the blow, however. The dagger plunged deep into Aerth's back, and there was a grunt of pain from the general. Usually protected by his armour, he had been wearing only normal clothes to see his son off. Vedran stared in horror as his father's features blanched.

That moment of pain and weakness passed in a flash, however. With a savage snarl, Aerth used his unharmed side to spin around and hit the cloaked figure in the gut, then using his elbow to give the assassin a powerful blow to where the face was situated. A repressed gasp told Vedran that his father had acted quicker than the other had surmised he would. The assassin lurched back, and drew another dagger.

"Milord!"

The guards, who had been told to wait nearby, had heard the noise and were coming into view, swords drawn. Behind them, Vedran saw several other soldiers – humans, as well as elves and dwarves – coming up behind them. The assassin gave the grim, wounded Aerth a seeming look, and then vanished between the tents.

The guards came near and took hold of the wounded man, as elves with curved blades and bows deftly took off in pursuit. Vedran lost all interest in the chase as his father sat upon a nearby box with a pained grunt.

"Milord…" One of the personal guards started. He looked to be caught between wanting to scold the general and apologizing. Aerth only gave a nod.

"My mistake. I put my back to that cursed tent. After all these years, one would think I'd have learned." The general said sardonically.

"Doesn't look good, milord." Another knight noted tensely.

"Aye, but not too bad, either. It shrugged off the shoulder bone. Just get one of the priests here quickly." He ordered.

To Vedran's surprise, the general – although weakened and in obvious pain, began to give orders to the ones surrounding him. He barely sounded as if anything was out of the ordinary, and his orders were clear. For a moment, the youth wondered if that wasn't what the soldiers truly respected in Aerth Swiftblade, above the titles and the victories. He quickly went to his father's side, even as the priests arrived.

"Your first taste of the battlefield, boy." The general said with a wince as the priests began prodding at the wound. "How do you like it?"

Vedran only shook his head helplessly, shivering from the after-effects of the fear he'd just felt. The whole attack had seemed surreal. "That wasn't a real battle!"

"And that, my son," Aerth said grimly, "Is exactly why I want you at Sunshire with your mother. There are some truths you aren't ready for."

To that, Vedran only answered by staring at the ground bleakly. He barely heard his father begin to curse at the priest.

* * *

Autumn 606, Violet Citadel, Dalaran

It came without warning.

Suddenly, the civilized, magically-maintained streets of Dalaran's capital city where pierced by variations of the same cry.

"Demons!"

Rena Delado had been walking to her abode when she heard that word. She suffered an instant of confusion, and looked about to see men and women – some of them merchants, some simple commoners, some even bearing the garments of magical apprentices – running for their lives from… something.

That was when she saw them. As large as the largest steel golems, bursting with greenish fire, the giant constructs came into view, swatting aside those unfortunate enough to be near, destroying stalls and homes with mighty, otherworldly fists. There also ran four-legged creatures, dog-like and yet immense and repulsive. These did not simply attack nearby people. They dismembered them in an orgy of blood and flesh.

Delado took this in for a bewildered moment. And then one of the dog-like creatures ran towards her.

She didn't have to think. The words of a spell came to her mind, and a ball of icy fire burst from her hands, freezing the enemy to death even as it attempted to jump towards her. It crashed back from the momentum, shattering into ice pieces.

This act, however, caught the attention of the nearby monsters. Some of the golems and dogs quickly moved towards her, and she uttered the words of a spell. A wall of pure magical force blinked into existence, stopping the murderous band, even as Rena attempted to gather her wits to herself.

'Demons! In such number?' she told herself. 'Impossible. This has to be something deliberate!'

Deliberate or not, however, it was clear that action had to be taken. Her magical barrier strained as some of the demonic golems began to beat at it regularly. She had cut off some of the civilians, and she grimaced as these found themselves prey for the beasts, retreat being impossible. Forcing the wall to stabilize with her powers, she took two glowing wands from her robes, and pointed them both at the abominations.

The wall fell. Delado spoke two words of power.

The air came alive with a mixture of an acid wind and a fiery one, dissolving anything it touched. Four of the dog-like creatures melted amidst monstrous screams, and even the golems staggered under the combined powers of the two wands.

Yet, although the living beasts were being driven back, the golems still advanced Delado cursed heartily, keeping control even as the monstrosities came bearing down on her. She released the two wands, and began speaking words in quick succession, drawing power and combining signs which most mages could not even comprehend.

The sphere came alive just in time to stop the blows, her strongest protection stopping even the golems' mighty forces, keeping her safe, but in an untenable position.

Consequently, she uttered a spell which allowed her to fly upward, away from the monstrous clump, and better assess the situation from higher grounds. What she saw was disenheartening to say the least.

Cross Island's skyline and elegant streets were marred by multiple fires. Here and there, monsters rampaged, killing citizens and doing untold damage to the area. The ancient magical city was fast becoming a battleground. Delado knew from the sight that this was no coincidence. This was a direct attack upon the capital.

The attack, however, was by no means unopposed. Flashes of light, lightning and fire could be seen at some places, and at others steel golems were exchanging blows with their demonic counterparts. The city's had been slow to answer, but they were quickly beginning to organize.

A small group hailed her, utilizing flying spells and wearing the garments of elite warrior-magi. She quickly made her way to them.

"What's the situation?" she asked the highest-ranked among them.

"Not very good so far. We have nearly two hundred of the creatures by all accounts, and they'd killed their share each." Came the grim reply, "Some streets are like it must be inside a butcher's shop."

"And the Kirin Tor?"

"They're rallying the efforts. They've already activated all the wards, archmage, and all the golems are active. All that remains is to eliminate them one by one." The battle wizard stated.

She nodded, in relative satisfaction. "Very good. Come with me then. Let us start the cleansing."

She led the battle-magi against the group that she had faced, and with their help managed to eradicate them after a long, furious battle. But that was only one group out of many, and the battle raked through the city throughout the entire day. Eventually, as night began, most of the mages in the city had spent themselves nearly dry of magic, including Delado.

Most of the monsters, however, had been destroyed, and the few that remained were being actively pursued by reserve magi who had arrived from nearby villages. Remaining spells were used to douse fires and strengthen buildings, while common guards and citizens set about in rescuing those still able to be rescued, and in dragging off the ones who no longer were. Blood and fire had run its course through Cross Island.

"A tragedy." Antonidas said. He looked pale, almost sickly, and a his left arm was bandaged. Nothing, however, could have up to the disgust in his eyes as he surveyed the wounded city.

"A tragedy." She agreed. "But one which people gave unto us. This was no less than a declaration of war."

"You are more in the right than you think, my friend." The older man said, his face troubled. She didn't miss the intonation, and looked at the other archmage questioningly. "The first blow has struck us harder than you think."

"In what way?" she asked, although she felt she could do without the knowledge.

The old man seemed to consider things for several moments, his patient face strained and worried. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity to the woman, he relented.

"Seven members of the Kirin Tor are either dead, or beyond the aid of even our best priests." Antonidas sighed.

Delado's eyes widened slightly. 'So that was it. All the death, all the fear and bloodshed. All that, to purge an obstacle as thoroughly as possible. This is a war indeed, now.'

"Has the cause of their deaths been ascertained?" She asked at last, considering the plans that she, Khadgar and several others had been painstakingly putting in place.

"No, but I have little doubt, Rena." The man answered, even as several men began to search the rubble nearby. The cries and wails were finally beginning to recede even as night began to steal over the wounded city. "Several of the dead would never have been killed by these mindless things."

It made sense. Magical aptitude and knowledge were things that one had to have aplenty to even consider becoming a member of the ruling magi. Although several had turned their magics towards academics and research, several more had once been powerful spellcasters who, in their older days, hadn't quite lost their might. They would not have fallen so easily.

"What about what remains of the Kirin Tor, then?" she finally asked.

"They are angry, to be certain. But they are mostly reeling from the loss of their colleagues and the damage done to the city, and I doubt that they will be much help for now, even if we told them of our suspicions."

"They've crippled the city in both the mind and the body." She grunted.

"Quite so, I am afraid to say. Dalaran will be paralyzed, and out hidden enemies will use that to become stronger."

She glared at the older man. Antonidas was a man that she respected, but he was too pragmatic about such things as deaths and possible coups. The man, when it came down to it, was a peaceful person of more scholarly pursuits. Delado, when it came down to it, was not.

"Well, I have no intention of letting them do as they please in the city where I was born and raised." She growled, turning on her heels and taking the direction leading to her personal abode. The sudden departure seemed to perturb Antonidas.

"I understand you anger, but how can we counter them?" he asked.

At that, Delado already had one answer. "Khadgar isn't the only one who has been working behind the scenes to help this city and country."

With that, Delado continued on her way. Her mind was set.

* * *

The Azerothian Horde in 606

Seven years after the end of the Second War, the Horde had lost much of its strength. What hadn't been lost to the civil war named Gul'Dan's Treachery had been either destroyed, captured, or was barely holding out. As of 606, only a few orcish powers of relevant significance remain.

The Dragonmaw Clan (Zuluhed the Whacked): The largest of the powers, the Dragonmaw Clan controls over 18,000 troops and over 40,000 civilians, including remnants of other clans, and controls several dragonflights. Although the red dragons there have resisted wanton attacks upon settlements, they are bound to defend the place, which they do with frightening efficiency. It is based in Grim Batol and its immediate surroundings. It also has a small, 5-ship fleet.

The Dire Fang Clan (Argal Grimfrost): These former Blackrock soldiers followed Argal Grimfrost at the end of the Second War and colonized a part of the Dust Crags, founding their own clan with Grimfrost as chieftain. The warriors of the clan number 7,000 veterans, along with 19,000 civilians, making it the second-largest and most experienced power.

The Draenor Forces (Grom Hellscream): The 10,000-strong army led by Hellscream is largely made up of Warsong warriors. They are new and badly adapted to Azeroth, and although they are committed to their cause, they are also blinded by the realities of the human-dominated world.

The Hidden Valley (Gelmar Thornfeet): This small community of orcs is unusual in many ways. Hidden away from the sight of the Alliance, it stands deep within Stromgarde, a bitter enemy. Made up of orcs from different clans, its population is even more peaceful than the Dire Fang clan. It is there that the first Shamans, trained by Thornfeet, gently bring hope to the internment camps. There are less than 70 warriors and over 900 civilians in the community. Although small, it is quite thriving, and is allied with the like-minded Dire Fang Clan, which has begun sending apprentices and taking shamanistic advice.


	7. Chapter Six: Warriors and Wizards

**Chapter Six: Warriors and Wizards**

Autumn 606, Dark Portal, Wildlands

Swiftblade shifted in his saddle. The would-be assassin's thrust had luckily missed any critical point, but it had been deep. Poison, which the blade had bee dipped in, had gotten into his veins, and it had taken three healers no less than three days and nights to cure him of his ill. The general barely remembered the days himself, as he'd been in a daze, seeing things he barely remembered.

The fever had broken only the day before, yet he'd ordered food, forced himself to eat, and had sent word that his army would be ready. The priests had certainly been shaking with frustration at his behaviour. The army, however, was on a rather unforgiving timetable, and it couldn't await his full recovery.

And so he sat, trying to feel as comfortable as he could in dozens of pounds of steel armour, atop a horse laden with yet even more steel. Normally, he could. He'd lived through many campaigns on horseback. And yet, his body felt cold despite the warming rays of the sun, and he could barely repress shivers.

'I'm getting old.' He grumbled, 'In my early days, this wouldn't have stopped me." Most of his mind stubbornly refused to remember he'd never had a nearly lethal dose of poison in that very youth. Instead, he surveyed his army.

About ten thousand troops were arrayed, to be the vanguard of the Alliance's thrust upon the Horde's home. It had been Turalyon who had given him the orders, himself.

"When we burst upon Draenor," the grim-faced paladin had said, "The first units may be facing a situation which requires…unorthodox thinking. Now, myself , Lord Stonehammer, and Lord Eltrass are, I think, competent in normal situations. But only you and Lord Minvare have the ability to use the battlefield so efficiently."

"And you don't trust Lord Minvare to do this task?" he had asked, knowing the answer full well.

"During the Second War? Without hesitation. Right now?" The paladin had sighed, in resignation more than irritation. "Right now… would you?"

He had found himself unable to defend his good friend. Minvare, in his opinion the most level and crafty of humanity's warleaders, had been far less than himself. Irascible, with inadequate battle plans and an increasingly undisciplined force, his command had been relegated to being the last to come into Draenor. It would be the reserve, no more.

Swiftblade had arrayed his forces as best as he could. At the very front stood the heavy infantry, with Danath's Hordecleavers being on the first line, as he'd promised. That force had been, by far, the most powerful he'd ever seen. Few orc formations were able to face the orange and crimson flag without some nervousness.

The Heavy infantry was flanked by knights and cavaliers armed with bows and lighter armour. It was the light cavalry, built for swiftness rather than fighting power. But it would prevent flanking.

Behind that line was the heavy cavalry. Hundreds strong, armed with lances and heavily armoured, it would charge the enemy at its weakest points and deal as much damage as it could. Most battlemages were among them.

Behind still, to join the fight when the first blows had been given, was the light infantry and the archers, almost six thousand strong. They weren't quite as heavily armed, but they would help in solidifying positions. The last to go would be the ballistae crews. It would be unwise to use them if there was no fixed position to defend. The supply wagons and priests would come only when the area was secure.

He nodded, shivered, and cursed. It was a solid battle arrangement, with a straightforward goal. Only there might be a need for quick-thinking and last-minute orders, and he felt less than certain he would be able to do such things as swiftly as he might ordinarily be able to. He was truly getting old, it seemed.

There was a tremor amongst the troops, and a dwarf appeared, walking towards him. At a gesture from Swiftblade, his personal guard relaxed their grip on their hilt, but did not calm down entirely. The previous assassination attempt – made, it seemed, by a man who had a grudge against the Alliance itself, and Swiftblade in particular, for letting so many Stromgardians die during the war – had made his men edgy.

The dwarf, however, was well-known, and Swiftblade bowed his head slightly.

"Well met, Master Thumpsilver." He said amicably, repressing yet another shiver. "I see you've brought it to me." He eyed a wrapped bundle with eagerness.

"Aye, that I did, Lord Aerth." The dwarf said, looking rather young and fit despite being over two centuries old. "Tis' a beauty, and I'm glad ye'll have it." With that, he gave the bundle to the mounted man, who unwrapped it quickly. Another shiver, yet repressed. Swiftblade was taken with the wish to go and lie down in bed.

Yet, the sight took hold of him as he beheld his sword. It was long and keen, with a perfect curve and a hilt - shaped like a wyvern, and with the House Swiftblade Crest in it – which fit in his hand perfectly. From the base of the blade to its very tip, runic engravings, silvery and shining ever so slightly, drew the eye, and tiny magical arcs sometimes danced from one to the next.

He swept it a moment, feeling its weight, and nodded with a grin. "Master Thumpsilver." He said at last, "This is, without a doubt, the best and most beautiful sword I've ever had. You and your people have my gratitude."

"Nay, general. We owe ye much more than that." The dwarf said, and bowed.

"This blade will remain in my family as long as the line endures." He vowed. "And it will be named 'Lorathran'… Wyvernsteel." And with that, he shifted his attention back to the tasks at hand. The gift, and the effort which must have gone behind it – had given him some strength. He had to use it while he could.

"Knights!" he intoned to those nearby. All turned in his direction. "Is all ready?"

"Yes, milord, awaiting your command." One, the highest ranked, answered for them.

"Then advance. My orders to all troops: the advance begins! Sound the horns!" he ordered swiftly. Swiftblade had a thought for his son – now magically transported to his certainly steaming mother – and the fact that he might have found the sight of so many troops, flags and standards, rather overpowering. Swiftblade had felt the same way, long ago, when he had first taken part in a large battle as a footman.

He pushed such thoughts aside. Truly he must be getting old, to think such trivial thoughts while finally taking the fight to their enemy's lands. The knights, however, were busy relaying the order, and the sentence 'Sound the Horns! We advance!'

The horns sounded, splitting the air with their number, and a roar came from the troops. At once, they began to move towards the Dark Portal, crossing the distance quickly. The general could well imagine Danath at the front, leading the troops. He felt a pang of absurd jealousy. Absurd, because he knew nothing could be changed about it. Yet it bothered Swiftblade, especially now, to have to sit so far in the back, only issuing orders.

"All the glory to me, and yet none of the dying. It seems unfair, isn't it?" he muttered.

"Milord?" A knight asked hesitantly.

"Never you mind." Swiftblade sighed. He shivered. This time, there was no stopping it. He leaned forward a bit, drawing concerned looks from his aides. He had to restrain himself to keep from glaring at them, or throwing his helmet at them. He couldn't stand being under such constant scrutiny! He wasn't dying just yet, by the Light And All Its Infinite Glory!

He was glad his beloved Eira wasn't there to see him. General or not, he might not have been able to make this endeavour with his forces. Women could be strange that way. Loveable, yes, cherished no doubt, but definitely strange.

Swiftblade saw the first lines of men go in, and realized that, whatever happened, there was no going back. They were beginning a war against the Horde in Draenor. He hoped that it would be his last. Even if it was, with the troubled state Azeroth was in, he doubted he would be able to go live in Sunshire until his greying hair turned utterly white.

He guided his warhorse into a slow trot, followed closely by his guard and aides, and issued short orders. Not many. As long as he wasn't on the other side, he preferred to keep things as simple as possible. There would be time enough to change his orders when he saw a direct reason to on the battlefield.

"More blood to us, my friends." He said, and this time he meant to be heard. "Killing and dying. May it prevent our children from doing the same, as idealistic an idea as it may be."

The knights looked at one another, until one – his standard-bearer – gave a nod.

"I've three children. Don't want to see them waving a sword around, milord." He agreed.

As they neared the Dark Portal, Swiftblade gave one last look to his homeland, taking in the waiting armies, and seeing – in his mind – the people he had to leave behind in order to spare them further harm.

"The last one." He vowed, and entered the Dark Portal.

* * *

Autumn 606, Cross Island, Dalaran

It was all Antonidas could do to prevent Rena Delado – still wearing an outfit torn and burned from her hours of battle – from flying into a rage. He found he couldn't fault her anger, either. He felt much of it himself, albeit in a more restrained manner. The senior members of the Kirin Tor – those who could yet be reached, or had not been killed in the assault – were being surprisingly stubborn.

"The fact remains, archmage Delado, that you do not have the authority to launch this investigation." One said in what might well be a condescending voice, as magic hid all physical features.

The archmagi clearly fumed, not understanding the delay. Antonidas, however, understood only too well.

"Then GIVE me the authority!" she replied hotly "We cannot simply forget that we were the object of an unprovoked attack!"

"That is without question." Another member stated with confidence. "We will first take in all the evidence and look at it precisely. Once we have catalogued the attack properly, we can decide upon a course of action."

The grey-bearded archmage sighed. He knew that the phrasing would not go over well with the more driven Delado. The younger spellcaster seemed ready to tear the fantastic Chamber of Air with her magic. Once more, he sympathized, and this prompted the aging man into action.

"Friends, Dalaran has been wounded. We have lost hundreds of innocent civilians, hundreds of soldiers, and scores of out best, including members of the Kirin Tor." He said. "The people will want answers."

"And answers we shall give them. When we have answers to give." A member, elven by the tone and poise, replied evenly.

"How casual this council is." Delado all but spat. "How disappointing to see such lack of will amongst those we look towards for support."

"Take heed, mistress Delado." One of the Kirin Tor argued with a venomous edge. "You may descend from a powerful and ancient family with many ties to us, but you are not part of the Kirin Tor. It isn't your place to judge how we decide and what we decide."

Antonidas understood what was happening too well. When it came right down to it, the elders of the Kirin Tor standing around the Chamber of Air were mages who focused more on research and philosophy rather than war and strategy. Delado's views couldn't be reconciled with theirs.

Delado was of another type entirely. From the first, she had exerted Dalaran into supporting the Alliance, and had lent her considerable knowledge and powers to that cause. She was a fine spell researcher, but she was also one not to dally when it came to finding out about an attack, and in doing something about it. It wasn't something Antonidas liked much, but he had to admit that, in this case, it had its merits.

"How many times in the past centuries has our capital been attacked so strongly? If memory serves, only the Horde ever tried such a thing in over a millennia." The mage mused. There was no response from the translucent forms. "And yet they had no success. Twenty thousand orcs were unable to breach our city. Why, then, did three hundred demons manage so well?"

He could feel a certain tension coming from the others now. Oh, they knew where he was leading; they knew how they should answer. Yet they didn't rise to the bait, delaying the inevitable. Antonidas wasn't certain he wanted to be promoted higher in the Kirin Tor, and wondered if he'd done better by simply continuing in researching new spells and devices. That, however, was something he would think over at some other time.

"You hesitate to answer. Is it through stubbornness or ignorance? I think it must be the former." Antonidas said, and was surprised at his own sarcastic tone. He had been working with Khadgar and Delado too much, it seemed. "Yet the answer is clear to all of us with some knowledge and wits: it was so successful because someone who knew our defences engineered this. We have traitors seeking to overthrow the Kirin Tor, and this nation!"

"Preposterous!"

"Dalaran is too civilized for such occurrences."

"In any event, we must consider the facts carefully before jumping to such…"

"Listen to yourselves!" Delado exploded, clearly tired beyond any shred of patience. "We were attacked. People have died, including members of this council! Have we grown so complacent in our power that we can no longer acknowledge our own vulnerabilities?"

"Such impudence."

"Is it worse than blind arrogance?" she countered. "We of Dalaran have been at peace, through our mastery of magic, for centuries. Long before there was a Pact of Stormwind, we had civilization and prosperity. Because of that, we have become too confident, only acting in the interests of others when it suits our needs."

"Do you believe that the other leaders of the Alliance will have forgotten how we helped only when we cared to? If strife engulfs us, will they even wish to help?" she finished. "Well, reality has burst our bubble. We are no longer removed from the horrors of war. They are here. And we must minimize the damage. So, I ask again, give me the authority to investigate."

A powerful speech, given by a powerful woman. Antonidas blinked as she stood in her damaged outfit, small but proud. He then fully understood why the genially talented Khadgar only felt Delado as a possible companion in his life. They were, he could see it, two of a kind.

The Kirin Tor, however, stood silently as magical suns and stars, storms and gales, burst as if they all stood on air. They had been scolded by one who was not one of the Kirin Tor, and that simply could not have gone over well. However, they also knew that Delado had been instrumental in dealing with the recent crisis, and that the people looked to her as a hero of sorts.

Of course, it might not be the best of ideas to state that there had been an investigation – a secret one – already for many months. Antonidas knew that it would only lose them whatever credibility they had, and he hoped his friend understood that, as angry as she was.

"You have leads?" One member asked in a soft voice which could only belong to a woman. The archmage barely contained a sigh of relief. From the tension ebbed off Delado, so had the archwizardess.

"A few of them. I admit that there has been some…suspicions towards certain quarters." She replied, "Nothing concrete, but enough to warrant an investigation. Especially now."

"If you happen to be wrong… it may make Dalaran look foolish."

"This is pointless." Antonidas interjected. He was himself getting tired of the hesitant mien the senior Kirin Tor members were taking. "We have traitors in our country, in our very capital. We have to find out who it is. The alternative is to ask the other nations for aid. We all know that King Greymane of Gilneas would love that very much."

That struck a cord. For decades, Gilneas had been locked in political squabbles with Dalaran over territorial rights. Only the magocracy's stability and strong magical powers had managed to avert a war. But if the stability was reduced, and the battlemagi greatly weakened… the Kirin Tor knew well that Greymane might not be able to resist certain annexations.

"It appears that there is no choice in this matter." One of the Kirin Tor members eventually said. "The Kirin Tor will grant you permission to investigate this."

"Be aware, however, that we expect swift results from your end, archmagess." Another warned.

At the words, Delado stiffened, and her poise tightened. She did not, however, let anger take control of her again. Instead, she simply bowed her head in acceptance. Antonidas wondered if Khadgar, proud – albeit rightfully so – of his magical abilities, could have shown such restraint.

"It will be as you say. I thank you for your trust in me." Delado said.

As soon as the words were out, however, the Chamber of Air vanished, and Antonidas and Rena Delado found themselves in the antechamber in which they had waited for their audience with the magocracy's leading body.

"It seems we are dismissed." Antonidas said. He didn't particularly feel happy about the way the meeting had gone. Delado, however, gestured rather dismissively.

"The more active seniors are off stabilizing the city and hunting any remaining demons roaming yet." She stated, shrugging. "To me, it's quite enough that we managed to gain their permission."

The elder magi shook his head. Delado and Khadgar really were two of a kind, no doubt. But if this was all simply manipulation, the female of the two might well be the most fearsome.

"And when will your start your work?" he inquired.

"Lord Antonidas." She replied evenly. "It began the moment our capital was attacked."

* * *

Autumn 606, Dust Crags, Wildlands

Grimfrost had never been someone who liked when events put ordinary life into chaos. Good order had always been something he had managed to maintain in his armies when he had been a warlord, and it was his belief that it was the principal reason for whatever successes he had enjoyed on the battlefield. As chieftain, he had maintained most of that perspective.

This was why he reacted rather abruptly when he heard the sound of fighting.

"Maybe I should just let whatever idiot orcs are fighting fight each other to the grave." He growled angrily.

"I don't believe you can do that, as chieftain." Riakar Woodfist said as they briskly walked towards the source of the noise. Instead of either warrior or peon garb, he wore the shamanistic robes of the Hidden Valley.

"I wish I could!" The elder warrior said in frustration.

"I refuse to believe that. You've been darkened by many deeds, chieftain, but your heart is still full of good will for our struggling people." The shaman said.

Grimfrost gave the young Woodfist a glare, which made the shaman grin serenely. There was little, it seemed, which could irk or frighten a shaman of the Hidden Valley. 'This one is like Gelmar through and through. No wonder that 'Patriarch' sent that near-orcling here.' Grimfrost grunted to himself.

He had never regretted the alliance he'd managed to strike with the Hidden Valley, however. When the fledgling Dire Fang Clan had come to the Dust Crags, they had little, and faced grave odds. It had been during these first days that the Patriarch of the Hidden Valley had come and made to give the struggling orcs aid in exchange for part of the food and finished products they would wrestle from the land. A year later, the young Riakar had arrived with several lesser shamans.

Although viewed as suspect by the locals, the shamans had soon proven they could work as hard as any orc, and often selflessly used their strange magic to cure ills and even calm some minor weather. In exchange, a spiritual link between the two realms allowed for furniture to be funnelled to the Hidden Valley. The shamans had quickly become an accepted part of the Clan, something the warlocks had never been. Riakar himself had married two summers ago.

The orcs of the Dust Crags had erected hidden fortifications to cover the borders of their small world, fortifications which had so far been sufficient to protect their land. Within, villages and farmlands had been painstakingly built, and prosperity was gradually becoming a reality for the young Clan.

It couldn't, of course, be a perfect time. Orcs, Grimfrost had found, still had the bloodlust of battle locked in their heart.

As he walked, Grimfrost noticed an orc standing next to several pieces of chopped wood, intently looking at one more log, while two young orclings were busy playing with what seemed like wood-crafted toys. The scars and bearing the orc had clearly showed him to be a former grunt – someone who had once waded into battles to the death, someone who had probably fought the humans at Blackrock Spire.

Yet there was little aggression in the orc's new poise, and none when he turned to give the two orclings what could only be a fond, fatherly look, before resuming his work in earnest.

The old warlord felt himself moved by the sight for some reason. He wondered why he felt the way he did. Was it because he was glad to see his people breaking free of their old curse. Or was it more selfish, simply a desire to achieve something Doomhammer had been unable to? He didn't know the answer.

"There's some good from this." He said as he looked over the farmstead. He didn't know if he was speaking to Woodfist, or to his own uncertain soul.

"Yes, chieftain. One day, the one who will unite our people and lead them to a new, unsullied life will speak of this place proudly." The shaman stated confidently.

And there was something just as bad as the Shaman's spiritual talk, at least to the former warlord's ears. It seemed that Gelmar Thornfeet had dreamt or had a vision of a leader who would, one day, save the Horde from its curse. It wasn't known if that leader was born yet, or how he would save their race, but the shamans were adamant about that vision.

Grimfrost, however, would have none of that. The orc leader knew, of course, that the mystical existed and that larger forces directed some fates in the world. However, he refused to have his life guided by any kind of vision not based on facts. To Grimfrost, it was enough to make certain his people survived and thrived in this small patch of land. The rest would follow.

The aged orc came to the core of the day's problem. It happened between two of the wooden houses in the visited village proper. An orc, it seemed, was angrily fighting against two others, and prevailing through sheer angry energy. One other orc was already on the ground, holding a bruised head, while some other villagers stood back uncertainly.

Upon seeing him, the villagers seemed relieved. 'Here is the chieftain. The chieftain will handle this. He will make it alright.' The unspoken message was as clear as the light of the sun, and Grimfrost took it with a certain resignation. Thornfeet had once said that to try and make the people think they were ordinary was impossible. The best they could do was to work to justify their faith.

Grimfrost did just that the only way he knew how. Stepping towards the angry orc, he swung his fist and hit him just under the chin, then kicked to the back of the orc's knee before a reaction could be had. Surprised, the battler went on one knee, blinking up at Grimfrost's aged but fit presence.

"What's the meaning of this, orc? You're acting no better than an angry Ogre!" he growled. He surveyed the blinking orc. Another former grunt. But there was no contentment in this one.

"I can't take this anymore!" The former grunt shouted. "Working the land, cutting down trees, making houses! Watering the fields! Cutting the logs! That's a PEON's work!"

There were some murmurs at this. Positive ones. Not too loud so Grimfrost could see who uttered the words, of course. He exchanged a grim look with Woodfist, and both nodded. This could possibly get ugly. He might really have to think about bringing bodyguards at times.

"You're demeaning yourself, orc." He grunted, "You're fighting your own people, because of small grudges. Well, you know we need strong orcs to make this land ours. And we're succeeding at that. Look at what we've accomplished!"

"We haven't accomplished ANYTHING other than hiding like cowards! Hiding from the humans we should be crushing beneath our feet! Why don't we take all we need from THEM instead of wasting our time here!"

More positive murmurs. Some others less appreciative. Tension was building in the small crowds. Yet Grimfrost only gave the unruly orc a hard, even look.

"Another war with the pinkskins? Don't be a fool." The old orc said. "They have the numbers now. Eventually, we'd be destroyed once they found out where we are." It wasn't something which really pleased Grimfrost, but he knew it was the truth. The Alliance had the upper hand now, and the last years had only strengthened it.

"At least we'd be doing what we're MEANT to do!" The orc raged, rising to his feet. "We're GRUNTS here! We're made to FIGHT with blood on our hands, not working through ox dung and watering corn fields! Even if they killed us, it would at least be GLORIOUS!"

"Glorious." A voice said. Grimfrost saw it came from the orc who was busy splitting logs. "That's all you're thinking about, are you? Well, guess I might have understood that much at some point. Now…" he gave a nod towards the two oblivious orclings, still playing. "I have two here. I don't want to see them go hungry, or die, or get into an internment camp. Glory. Maybe for those who die. But then, what about the others?" A crack as he split another log, then silence.

Woodfist came to stand before the orc. "You want to restart a war only to satisfy yourself, but you'd sacrifice the orclings living today for it? How selfish."

"I don't CARE if I'm selfish about this!" The orc replied, although it seemed that he had now lost the crowd's sympathy. Many orcs now looked pensive, and Grimfrost had the feeling they imagined their own orclings miserable and grieved. This stoked the blood in the old orc's body, and he came right to the orc's face, furious.

"And I don't care if you don't like this! I am your chieftain, and I say that you will work! I say that we're more than beasts who only want to fight. There's more to us than axes and blood! More than war!" he gritted his teeth. "Or do you want to challenge my position as chieftain over this? If you do, make the challenge. If not, accept your lot!"

The other orc looked bewildered by the notion of taking Grimfrost's title. Uncertainty replaced the stubbornness, and the younger orc bowed his head in sullen acknowledgement. Grimfrost sighed inwardly. This incident was defused. For now. Grimfrost gave the logging orc a respectful nod.

"We are more than just beasts. We will make this our home. And we will see the orclings grow without our need to fight. This, I promise, as your former warlord, and as your present chieftain. The Dire Fang Clan will not be a clan of mindless killers."

Undisturbed, the orc only took another log to split, and Woodfist grinned.

* * *

Autumn 606, Redridge Mountains, Azeroth

Gelmar Thornfeet shook his head as he paced in front of the gathered orcs. It wasn't the first time that he'd had to have such talks, but they didn't become easier over the years.

"What you must understand," He said calmly, "Is that any hostility towards humans, or elves, or dwarves or even the gnomes will only raise the Alliance's anger towards us. That's dangerous."

"Are you saying that we should just let the humans take everything from us?" One of the orcs growled.

"From what I understand, this land was theirs for generations when we came." Thornfeet interjected. "So, I doubt the humans are even able to see it as anything other than reclamation."

"But we need the food." A scarred orc female with many daggers at her belt noted. "Our bands are always moving, and we can't grow crops even if we wanted to."

That much, the shaman had to admit, was a reasonable statement. In his heart of hearts, he fully sympathized with the orcs gathered in front of him. There were eight, each a survivor of the war, leading small groups in the habitable mountain ranges of Azeroth. Each had found a way for his or her people to survive, which was something Thornfeet could only laud.

But now they were talking about banding together to form true raids upon human communities. That much, the aging shaman knew, was unreasonable. Yet he couldn't make that fact clear to the people.

"You can't raid a human village. It would be suicide." He said.

"If we pool our forces." A large, grey-haired orc mused. "If we do, we have nearly one hundred warriors. One hundred if we take everyone we can. Now, Saren Ferry is a small village, of no more than three hundred inhabitants. It has no outposts or forts near it, and its militia can't be more than one or two dozen badly equipped people."

"And they have food." The scarred female added. "The food we need to feed our people."

"More killing. More blood. And if you attack in force, the humans will notice you. Their armies are strained by what happens in the Black Morass, the Spirits tell me, but not enough that they wouldn't send a small force to confront you. Forces led, maybe, by one elf ranger."

That made them think. That made them consider. The elves weren't the best of warriors, but they were feared when tracking and scouting came. And the elven rangers made the best human hunter sound like an ill-prepared fool.

However, he could see that the arguments weren't reaching them, not really. Despair, hunger, anger and the prodding of years of demonic influences was forcing them into something foolhardy. He could see them gauging the options, but a peaceful settlement on the matter of attacking small human villages would probably be rejected.

"Couldn't you hold us with your powers?" One of the orc leaders asked him. "If you did, we could-"

"No." He had put more tension in his voice on that than he had intended, and remonstrated himself for it. He sighed as he saw some faces tightened. "I can't use my powers to bring harm to people who are only going about with their lives. Even if I wanted to, the spiritual links I have with the spiritual world would break, and I'd be of no help."

"Then what is the use of you shamans!" one orc growled. "If you can't fight for us when we need you to!"

"We're not like the warlocks. Our powers aren't as destructive. And we will fight, one day. That much, I'm very certain. But not now. Not here. And not to kill innocents."

"Innocents. How can any human be…" One orc snorted.

"Be careful. You're standing in a band that took a human orcling and raised him as our own. He's not my son in blood, but in my heart." Borkom, who had been silent in most of the proceedings, spoke quietly. And yet his voice forced silence. "You taint my son's name and I'll challenge you here and now."

The orc rose, followed by others, while members of Borkom's band came forward. Growls soon became shouts, and it didn't think long before the meeting became more akin to a restrained brawl. No one ad broken anything yet, but the shaman was unnerved by what he was seeing.

He clapped his hands together, and channelled spiritual energy within. Instead of a simple clap of the hand, it seemed no less as if thunder had struck, and the fighting ended as the others all looked at the frowning shaman in surprise.

"Enough. This isn't working. Return to your bands. But I refuse to see you raid a village of innocents, human or orc or anything else." He said briskly and left the bewildered leaders to themselves.

'Incredible words! Strong words!' Gelmar's mind scoffed. 'But when it came down to it, you're no better than all of them, leaving them like that! Some shaman, some fount of wisdom!' He hadn't wished to be either, but he had, for some reason. Everywhere, orcs were beginning to speak of him, often telling exaggerated tales of what he said and did. It was still an unsettling concept to him.

What would the orcish race think of their shamanist patriarch, if they discovered that Gelmar Thornfeet had once been nothing but a weak necrolyte? It probably wouldn't change anything, and that was all the more frightening.

"Oktar-Ogar, Elder One." A voice of orcish tones but of human sounds said. Startled, the shaman saw that the young Kelak Fatebreaker was waiting, sitting on a rock, far from the small clump of tents and its cookfires.

"Ah, Kelak. Oktar-Ogar. I'm sorry if I was rude. You startled me." Of all he had seen over the years, Kelak Fatebreaker was one of the most remarkable. As a human orcling, the young one had been taken by Borkom and his mate and raised by the scouting band as an orc. Because of it, the young human now spoke and acted as an orc. For he was, in all but blood.

Seeing Kelak, for some reason, always stoked the hope in his heart, and this time was no exception.

"Is my father still over there?" Kelak asked. The fact that the human considered an orc his father never failed to shock. And yet, what else could Borkom be to the young one?

"Not too long, if they continue the way they have been. They have ideas that neither I nor your father agree to." He explained. He wondered if he had hidden the edge in the remark.

"You sound angry, elder." 'Well,' Gelmar thought, chagrined. 'Apparently not.'

"Not really angry, child." The shaman said, hating to sound even slightly defensive. "I am…irritated at best. But it will pass."

"It's them, isn't it? They want to fight. Real orcs always want to fight. Mother said so." Kelak said in a very reasonable tone. The shaman nodded at that, before taking notice of the phrasing the youth had taken.

"'Real' orcs, you said." He mused. "Does that mean that you think you're not a real orc?"

"I know I'm not. I'm human! A filthy, pink-skinned human! Like all those who hurt my people!" he spat. Thornfeet was surprised at the young one's vehemence, but was mostly taken by the anguish behind it. There was self-hatred, and a well of despair, behind the words. Thornfeet felt a wail from the spiritual world, and knew that the spirits of the dead grieved of this young soul's pain.

"Kelak," he said at length, choosing his words with care. "Humans are more and no less evil than the orcs. We are two people who oppose each other, grapple with each other. And both sides have something of the blame. You are not filthy for being a human, nor are you not a real orc."

"But I look human! Look at me, Elder One!"

"I see an orc. Appearance means nothing. What lies in the heart matters far more. For, in the spiritual world, having been human or elf, or orc or troll, means nothing." Kelak seemed dubious. "I know it's not easy to grasp. I don't expect you to. Not yet. But please, for your own sake, give yourself and your heritage a chance. In time you may reconcile your body with your soul."

The human eyes looked out in a most orcish way, a noble way utterly freed from bloodlust, and yet lusting for something else: to be accepted. The anguish remained, as Kelak closed his eyes, the pain palpable. The old shaman sighed, but knew that the spirits would see that young soul through, if it was willing to listen and follow.

"Let me tell you a story… a story of when a lost orc learned from a human, and so helped his own people." He mused. Kelak opened his eyes and looked at Thornfeet, who grinned. This was what he preferred. Not fighting, not quarrelling. Teaching. It was worth much more than any physical battle.

"The orc, in this story, was disillusioned. He had seen a great wrong committed, seen his friends dying for a mad warlock's ploy. It was during the early years of the last war, oh yes…"

"It was then… that I met the human I still call my mentor and master…

* * *

Autumn 606, Goldburg Estates, Dalaran

The Goldburg mansion had been built by that wealthy family twelve miles from Dalaran's capital city as a retreat. It was a graceful amalgam of fluted towers, balconies and fountains, surrounded by beautiful gardens. It had been miraculously untouched during the Second War, its magically enhanced ambiance unsullied.

The place was a center of quiet learning and magical demonstration for the Goldburg family and its many spellcasters. It had also been revealed, through very deep questioning through Dalaran's underworld, that it might well be a haven for those who had hurt the capital of human magic. Given the untrustworthy nature of that family, the remaining members of the Kirin Tor had seen fit to send a force to investigate the possibility, with Rena Delado as its head.

Delado hadn't balked from the task. The man she loved, Khadgar, was off fighting even harder battles, and she had no intention of staying idle. Besides, she reasoned, there were few in Dalaran who had ever equalled her time as a battlemagi.

She was surveying the place with her unit. All in all, a group of eighteen battlemagi – eleven humans, five half-elves and two elves – had been chosen, and was dressed in the purple and grey outfit of elite warmages, with the distinctive silver bracers and silver wands at their belt. An outfit Delado wore herself, except for golden runes on her bracers, indicating her status. The atmosphere was tense, tinged with both fear and anger, yet tightly controlled.

'So?' she sent to a red-haired woman, a half-elf with some of the best scrying abilities seen in a battlemagi. Not wanting to make any unnecessary noise, the archmagess had cast a telepathic spell to allow for communication.

'There are several wards.' Was the reply. 'Some of them are old, probably dating back to when the mansion was first built. Low-powered, probably to keep wildlife out. But the newer ones…'

'What about them?'

'Powerful. Unusually so. Not something one erects to keep wildlife out. This is much more suited to war.'

'It might be that they erected them to protect from the Horde during the war.' One human male mused.

Delado nodded, biting her lip a moment in thought. It was possible that it was simple protection. But it might also be a way to prepare for a possible day when Dalaran's spellcasters would turn a baleful eye on the wayward spellcasting house. And there was no way of saying which. To an archwizardess, who preferred to carefully weigh both spell components and options, it was frustrating.

'Can you break through the wards without us arousing suspicion, Tarunas?' She asked a rather small, slight elf male, who was rubbing his chin. Tarunas had been in Dalaran for three hundred years, and was an expert when it came to bypassing spells – something which would have made him a dangerous man if not for his dedication to the city's safety.

'Yes. With your help in the spellcasting.' He said.

'I see. Then I suppose it means we move in. Everyone, are you prepared?' She waited for everyone's affirmative before continuing. 'Then let us go at once.'

It went quickly after that. Within a moment, both she and Tarunas were chanting words of power, and the magic subtly worked towards the wards. There was resistance at once – more than she had counted on. The wards had been definitely designed to keep people out, and to alert whoever was within.

Still, Delado gritted her teeth. She had been not only been trained to penetrate wards in her youth, but her own research allowed her to find and capitalize on whatever flaw she found in the system. Strands of mana were also flaring from Tarunas' side even as the elf followed her lead. It was more delicate than the most delicate lock, and she had to be more skilled than the most perfect thief.

Still, she worked on. And, after what seemed to be an eternity, the wards fell.

'It is down. Move in.' she thought, and her people moved just as the last word resounded in her mind. One by one, they turned invisible, and it was only because of the fact that she knew where to look that Delado could keep track of her people. No wasted mana, no wasted time. In this, if nothing else, the Kirin Tor had chosen well.

She was within the mansion at once, spells allowing her to see in the dark as well as a cat. She could see the tale of twelve decades of history in these walls. A tale of arrogance and decadence, of opulence and overconfidence. The Goldburg family had been ill-reputed for many generations, and it had been no surprise to see them mingled in the treasonous plot.

She put her hand on a nearby door, and softly spoke. Again, a resistance, but she found herself inside the mansion, transported by her magic. That was good. It meant that the wards had truly fallen. It would take some doing to get them back up, and the archwizardess had no intention of letting her traitorous prey have any time to gain momentum.

'The barriers have been lowered. Cast the sleeping spells.' She said, even as she climbed the mansion's stairs. At the top, some guards were in front of a sturdy, intricate wooden door. They seemed resolute, stiff. For a moment.

And then they slumped and fell, noisily, to the floor. With barely a shrug, Delado made her way to the door. A simple enchantement and physical locks blocked it. A spell broke the enchantment, and with a grin, she closed her eyes and concentrated her magic to move the lockbolt, which softly slid open.

A flash from within. The smell of sulphur, and it was all Delado could do to raise her defensive magic as the bolt of magical lightning struck her. Even so, she was knocked back, and rose to her feet to come face to face with the lord – or, in this case, lady – of the house. Jamra Goldburg looked both angry and scornful, even as eldritch fire flayed between her fingers.

"Fool. Did you really believe I would not notice? The Kirin Tor has become weak indeed, to send an amateur to assail me." Goldburg said.

"I am sorry to displease you, milady." Delado said evenly, even as she scoffed inwardly. "But it changes nothing about my mission."

"If you think I will submit so easily to the Kirin Tor's dog - !" The woman, dressed in elegant clothes and looking younger than her fifty-odd years, looked infuriated more than anything else. Goldburg temper, it seemed, was well deserved.

"I do not presume of any ease in your submission." Delado drawled, "Yet you shall submit to me."

Lightning and fire burst at Delado, but hit her shield, ricocheting and scorching slumbering guards and old walls. Goldburg frowned at that – clearly she hadn't expected the spell to be blocked so totally. 'She used both fire and lightning in a single attack. Good spellcrafting, but full of weaknesses.'

She muttered her own spell, and the shadows around the darkened corridor seemed to come alive, and assaulted the matriarch. A burst of arcane light dispelled them, and within a moment a giant bear appeared next to Goldburg, attacking at her order, only to be cut down by invisible blades of arcane might.

Delado gritted her teeth. This was taking too long. She had gauged Goldburg, and knew she could take the matriarch down if need be. Only, to kill her would only render the entire mission moot, and she couldn't afford that.

And so, tying off her shield to make it weather her enemy's attacks, Delado began to chant, forcing the ambient magic to obey her, and directed her will towards Jamra's mind. The noblewoman frowned, her eyes narrowing, and within moments the two were struggling for dominion of Jamra's body.

"Insolence! You think you can… control… this body!" She growled, even as her mind began to resist in earnest. The grapple wouldn't last, Delado knew. It didn't have to.

Even as the woman began to regain control of her body, Magical fists slammed her into the wall once, then a second time. Within that attack, surprise and pain destroyed any resistance, and within moments, Jamra Goldburg was under Rena Delado's complete control.

"It was a risky venture there, lady Delado." Tarunas mused even as a half a dozen battlemage appeared with him, moving to secure the paralyzed woman. Quickly, they secured runic bracelets around her wrists, ankles and neck, stopping all possibility of Goldburg casting any spell.

"Necessary and, in this case, successful."

"Luck serves us, this time."

"For once, Tarunnas, it serves us and not they." She agreed, before eyeing the silent woman glaring balefully. "Jamra Goldburg, by the order of the Kirin Tor and the sovereign powers of Dalaran, you are hereby arrested for suspected treason and collusion with powers seeking to undermine our country."

She leaned closer. "My name is Rena Delado. And I swear by the Grand Mana, the Holy Light and the Great Dark combined that, if you know anything that might be useful, you will tell me these things. Willingly. Or not."

If the noblewoman had any doubts, she would soon learn that Rena Delado did not make threats idly.

* * *

Autumn 606, Dark Portal, Draenor

Kilrogg Deadeye knew that, had they been there, the three best orc commanders he had come to know would have reacted differently to the debacle.

Blackhand would have simply raged over the incompetence of those involved, and would have ordered them executed on the spot to soothe his fury. Doomhammer would have tried to extricate the units involved and ordered a fighting retreat. Grimfrost would simply have reshuffled his lines and ordered better defences be built behind before moving to them.

None of the three, the old chieftain was certain, would have made the tactical errors Ner'Zul had made. It was to his shame that the chieftain hadn't made a stronger argument against the plan.

When the forces sent to attack the human world had returned, they had spoken of a large army posted on the other side, and had also stated that Hellscream's forces had been successful in breaking away from human pursuit. Their numbers, however, had been barely six thousand, the rest being either wounded, dead and, in some rare cases, clearly captured by the Alliance.

Deadeye had urged Ner'Zul to concentrate his forces around the portal, building a strong line of defences around it so that, even if they came, the humans and their allies would never be able to establish a foothold. He knew the Alliance commanders who would be sent, and had grown to grudgingly respect their abilities. They couldn't be allowed any headway.

Unfortunately, his proposals had fallen on deaf ears. Troubles had broken up between the clans again, and Ner'Zul was more concerned in maintaining his power and in furthering his experiments than in using his troops to what he saw as an unnecessary hurdle. After all, the humans had taken casualties as well and so, wouldn't attack yet.

Deadeye had argued against that complacency, and Ner'Zul had, grudgingly, sent some additional forces, so that the forces around the portal numbered nearly fifteen thousand. They were, however, poorly equipped in catapults, and their entrenchments were in many places poor or insufficient.

The attack had come, every bit as quickly and as strongly as the chieftain had imagined.

Hundreds of heavily armoured humans on foot had come first, ragefully ploughing into the advance units. Surprised, the orcs and ogres there would have been able to push them back had that force not been reinforced by mounted knights at once. Those forces had come swiftly, coming down hard upon the strong but inexperienced Horde troops. And behind them, archers and human infantry began to pour forth. They bore Three Silver Blade and Five Diamonds flag along with the standards of Azeroth and of the Alliance.

Lord-General Aerth Swiftblade's flag. The man who had fought Argal Grimfrost on equal grounds more than once. What the human faced now, however, weren't Grimfrost's experienced troops, but bloodthirsty youth in which his small clan detachments provided the only true battle experience. Despite initially being outnumbered, the human units had pushed the first Horde forces back soundly, and for an hour had had the offensive advantage.

It had taken one hour for the aged orc to force the battle into a standstill. Even now, one hour later, he knew that the situation would have to be a retreat soon.

Haphazard catapult firing had failed to stop the humans from deploying their own ballista in response, and Deadeyes' orders had been ignored by the other clan leaders until it had been too late to stop the deployment. Hundreds of humans had been killed or wounded in the fierce, intitial fighting, but Swiftblade's quick, precise manoeuvres denied any breach.

Now, several points in the line were weakening, and the humans continued to pour forth from their homeworld. The irony of the reverse invasion was not lost upon Deadeye, who surveyed the battlefield, ignoring the screams and noise and smells of war with the aplomb of someone who had fought too long to be bothered about it when engaged in a battle.

"How many are they?" he asked a form next to him. He didn't turn to the Death Knight's decayed form. It took all he had to keep vehemence out of his voice.

"Now?" came the spectral reply, amusement touching its void. "From our last scrying, probably more than eight thousand. Nine at most. Some are wounded and to the rear. But they won't break. Not now. You know that, don't you chieftain?"

Deadeye decided to ignore the former warlock's lack of respect in both tone and words. To take umbrage would be useless anyway. Instead, he concentrated upon the information. As far as the death knight as could be possibly done, orcs from the other clans were looking at Deadeye expectantly.

"This is the perfect time, chieftain." One said eagerly. "Our troops are superior in number, and our warriors are stronger. We can push them back before they take more ground!"

"You want to start a full assault on the human defences?" Deadeye said, tonelessly. He thought he heard something from Varlog, yet he couldn't say what it was exactly.

In front of his eyes, Ogres attempted to break up a human infantry formation, but they were pushed back by fireballs cast by Alliance spellcasters. In that respect, the Horde was sorely lacking. They had few magi of their own, and those they had were being mostly used to mount Ner'Zul's last offensive against those orcs who opposed Shadowmoon's power. Wise and powerful he may be, yet militarily short-sighted. That, in essence, was Ner'Zul.

The black dragon detachment, only eighteen, had been too small, and was now tangled with nearly as many gryphon riders. Although the Alliance's aerial forces would suffer, Deadeye knew that more must be on the way. The human infantry units were now fighting in front of the archers, with the mounted units flanking and protecting from flanking. They were suffering casualties. But they were evidently stabilized.

And more were coming, bolstering. Always.

"No. We'll hold until nightfall, and then we'll retreat farther west." Deadeye decided. "We'll have time to build real, adequate fortifications there."

On the human world, the word retreat and manoeuvres, as well as fortifications, had been accepted during the many years of war against Azeroth and, later, against the Alliance. Thoughtless battles and glorious charges had given way to thoughtful strategies and careful battles. Having been on the human world so long, Deadeye had forgotten how those of Draenor viewed the world.

"You'd have us retreat before these small pinkskins?" One asked, astounded. "Never! That would dishonour us all!"

"We have the strength and the numbers! Our victory is assured if we act now!" Another said angrily. "To retreat is the way used by cowards and peons!"

"Ah. I'd forgotten that." Varlog interjected mildly. "That refreshing, simple-minded approach. I missed that."

"Silence, you abomination!" One orc said, oblivious to the dangers. Deadeye saw the bloodlust, repressed through necessity and reversals, was shining in all eyes save for those who were from the Bleeding Hollow Clan. Yes, the chieftain had forgotten how it was on Draenor. He'd forgotten that he'd once been exactly that way.

"The Draenei often tried to hold their ground like this, and we defeated them easily with our power. These…humans… will fall as they did!" One orc said stoutly.

"The Alliance is nothing like the Draenei." Deadeye growled, "They're more organized, and have stronger tactics and arms. Rushing them is only going to get our people killed at this rate!"

"It's better than standing here like cowards! Better to die with the blood of the enemy on our hands than to… retreat… like some Draenai scum!" An orc snarled. "If you can't understand that much about Orc honour, or the glories of battle, then you should have stayed in your hole in Auchindoun!"

The threat angered Deadeye, as did the contempt in the words. But not as much as it concerned him. He felt clearly that retreat would not be possible; that these orcs would make the warriors attack no matter what he tried, thinking that the humans would break under the onslaught. They wouldn't, the chieftain knew. They would take the charge calmly, use the orcs' bloodlust against them, and inflict far heavier casualties than they would receive.

In time, they would simply weakened and overwhelm the orc lines. Swiftblade was good at taking advantage of any weakness, and other would reinforce him soon enough. The Alliance would press against a Horde force not used to defensive tactics, a force unwilling to retreat.

Eventually, the Horde force would be virtually destroyed, and the humans would have nearly free reign of the immediate region, including the small shipyards to the south. Yes, Deadeye could see it easily.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

"They are fools. And they won't learn in this life." Varlog said in amusement.

"But I have." Deadeye said firmly. Let Ner'Zul deal with the present problems. He no longer belonged with these orcs. "Recall my people. We return to Auchindoun."

That was the way it was on Draenor.

There was nothing he could do about it, and he could no longer live with it. And so, Kilrogg Deadeye simply…abandoned it.

* * *

Shamanism in 606

Gelmar Thornfeet's work had not been idle during or after the Second War. Although still young and fledgling, the order of shamanism has been slowly growing in the Hidden Valley, where they number nearly one hundred fifty shamans and apprentices. This has led to missions to other orc groups, and even inside internment camps, where a few have started teaching those who could learn.

The most successful of these ventures remain the Dire Fang Clan. Hidden with help from the shamans and in direct alliance with them, Gelmar Thornfeet has allowed a shamanist advisor named Riakar, and several lesser shamans, to stay within his new territories. Currently, they number few – less than twenty all told – but there is much possibility of growth in the area.

Growing steadily, the shamans have established a council of sorts, made up of the Patriarch and of wise shamans known as the Elder Conclave. So far, that body's sensible decisions has led to a slow rebirth of spiritual magic within the orc community, an occurrence which may, one day, help the prophesized leader to lead the orc people to honor and spiritual freedom.


	8. Chapter Seven: Ploys and Tidings

**Chapter Seven: Ploys and Tidings**

Autumn 606, Dark Portal Plains, Dreanor

Swiftblade could feel the sweat clinging to every pore of his being, dripping inside his armour. He felt the strain as his left hand cleaved one of the ogre's heads. His other arm was straining to maintain a grip on his shield, even as his horse bucked and danced in angry challenge.

His breath was short and sharp, and the general wondered if his heart would truly hold the strain, so fast it beat.

The battle was, generally speaking, going smoothly. They had caught the orcs rather unprepared for the fight, and had made some headway in driving them back from the portal. With human armies, it would have ended there – there was no need to charge unprepared, against an enemy who's expecting you to come at him.

Whereas the orcs in Azeroth had learned that – as much as the orcs could learn it, in Swiftblade's mind – those of Draenor certainly had not. Although the field clearly belonged to the Alliance forces, the Horde had decided to throw a massive charge at a row of shields and swords.

The results had not unexpected. The orcs couldn't truly break the defences with such a predictable charge. Even as Swiftblade extinguished half of the ogre's twin minds, the attack was starting to ebb away. The Horde, however, had managed to strike quite deeply at some points, overtaking the general's command. The runic, dwarven blade that he had been given was put to use faster than he thought it would be.

'Faster?' he thought wryly, 'Don't lie to yourself, you aging fool. You didn't expect to have to fight directly at all.' He found that he couldn't refute the wayward thought. Still, he had never forgotten how to fight, and the years of fighting in the field came back to him quickly in the face of danger.

The ogre fairly howled as the other head fell in a thud – inaudible in the terrific din of battle – and stumbled backward, shocked by the broken link between the two minds. Even as the general struggled to bring himself for another, lethal, blow, the ogres's hands moved, almost reflexively, and the huge hands glowed.

"Light! Ogre-Magi!" He snapped. He'd seen the gestures enough time through previous battles to know what they meant. Without much of a thought, he leaped from his horse, throwing himself as far as he could.

He hit the ground hard, his relatively healed wound in the back opening again, and grunted in pain as he rolled to his back. A moment later, his horse fairly exploded the runic energy channelled by the ogre-magi searing it apart, showering Swiftblade with bits of cremated flesh.

Staying prone was impossible. Staying prone was risking death every second. With an effort, praying none of the nearby Horde combatants would see him, he rose to his feet and faced the ogre-magi again. Panting, he looked at the ogre…

… and all but flung himself headfirst into the moist, unpleasant ground of Draenor as he saw a huge foot trying to fling him aside. He docked the blow, and winced at the blooming pain at his back.

He dug in his feet, stumbling, and gripped his sword tight. The ogre was off-balanced, and wounded in a way which rendered it confused and suicidal. He surged between the spread legs, and firmly cut upward. His thrust sliced a gaping wound into the tremendous belly, and the single head reflexively looked down in agony. It didn't have time to think much before another thrust severed it.

But Swiftblade had barely recovered his balance that he was thrust in battle with an orc, the human and greenskin trading blows before the magical blade eventually wore down the opponent's defences. He soon found himself breathless, and yet unable to stop, unable to relent at all.

Had it always been that hard? The question had some merits. 'I've been lax. No true military campaign in six years. I'd started to become used to peace again.' He realized. But the nicks, dents and scrapes were real, and the battering he'd received from his fallen enemies probably made him purple underneath his armour. If he'd begun to forget war, he'd have no choice but to relearn it quickly.

"Filthy human!" came a howl, and he turned in time to block an axe from cleaving his head with his shield, badly jarring his arm. Still, he held firm, despite the breathlessness. He recognized the colours on this orc: Bleeding Hollow.

"You're one of Deadeyes…" he gasped, but found himself the target of a whirlwind of blows. Unlike most of the Dreanor orcs, that one knew humans, was used to fighting them. Still, he held the bigger orc back. He heard the orc growl something in orcish, something the human general recognized.

"This is insane, orc!" he growled, shield and sword at the ready. "Your people are just throwing themselves at us like beasts! This won't defeat us!"

"Beasts! And why not act like beasts! That's how you've treated us! Like beasts to be put in a cage!" The orc said wildly.

"Fool orc! Your people are responsible for their fate!" he said, his own hate rising. Images of friends and family dead surged to mind. The slaughter of Moonbrook, the destruction of Sunshire and Goldshire, the burning of the land he'd known as home. "You invaded us! You invited hate yourselves!" With that, he met the orc again. This time, however, he felt he was back in time, fighting as a simple knight, long ago.

Eventually, once more, his blade prevailed over the orc's axe. He had won again. Would he always win these deadly duels, or would the Light see fit to claim him at once time, before he became old and saw his children grow into adults? He dearly hoped for the latter, but knew that fate was its own master.

"Milord! General!" He heard through his breathing and the din of the fighting. Three of his knights were coming up quickly, galloping. The wedge that the orcs had managed to pierced had been driven back, it seemed.

"General, are you alright?" One knight, a young man, asked anxiously. 'Probably worried about his honour if I am.' Swiftblade thought sourly.

"Yes, lad, I am. My hair may be grey now, but I still hold my own if I need to. How goes the battle?" he asked. He leaned on his sword to regain his breath.

"Well, as much as I can tell." He said, his eyes showing the horror of the day. "We've paid a high price, however."

"Even losing one since man is a high price, especially here. But enough. Help me on your horse, so that I can see what's happening better."

Swiftblade accepted the outstretched hand, and climbed behind the other armoured man. The warhorse was too incensed and frightened to consider the additional payload, and they road to a safer location inside the lines. Swiftblade scanned for a good place to observe the field, and found that someone else had made the same deduction before he did.

Turalyon was there, beside what could only be Alleria Windrunner, the former Ranger-General of Quel'Thalas, disgraced and known to be intense in her vengefulness. The elven woman was well known for her temperamental outbursts, and her highly refined skills with the longbow.

They spotted him even as he came up and dismounted. "Well," Turalyon drawled, "I see you have been having amusements not befitting a general. You should be careful about that, General Swiftblade."

"And I might point out that you look as winded as me, and that you are even more important to the war effort than I am." He saw the paladin shrug easily – no paladin could lie under the edicts of their Order, yet they could decide not to answer some queries – and turned more serious. "Pleasantries aside, how goes the battle?"

"It goes well, by the Light!" Alleria said almost gleefully, a wild edge to her beautiful elven face. "We are killing the foul infestation little by little!"

"Alleria," Turalyon chided, "We can't just think of the orcs as just beasts. Could beasts have brought us to close to enslavement or destruction? I hate the orcs for my own reasons, but I contain my hate, lest I become the orcs."

"Please spare me your Silver Hand's little thoughts. I do not believe in Lightbringer or Archbishop Faol. I do not have to follow your rules. The orcs will find no mercy from the High Elves!" She promised, and before he could utter a retort, she'd left. Swiftblade came up to the somewhat frustrated general he'd come to know over the years.

"She is the best there is. We can't find a better ranger in all of Quel'Thalas." He mused. Turalyon sighed.

"Even with that, do you truly think it will be enough? Even with tens of thousands of men? What can we do, subjugate an entire world? Is that what we have become, nothing better than the orcs?" Turalyon fell silent when he realized what he was saying. "Forgive me, my friend. No reason for me to burden you further. Let us go see about that battle." With that, Turalyon began to scan the battlefield attentively, or so it seemed.

Swiftblade, however, was certain that Turalyon was still gripping with doubts and troubles, with the pressure of the tremendous undertaking. The younger general than vowed that he would help in any way he could, no matter what happened.

Even so, he reflected as he turned his own attention back to the battle, he wasn't young anymore. He had less to gain, and he had far more to lose than in his youth.

* * *

Autumn 606, Rulien Cove, Khaz Modan

The day was cloudy, which suited Hellscream's mood fine. It wasn't anything regarding the bloodlust he was cursed with, but rather of the glum facts he was being shown. He had asked to see what ships the Horde still called its own. This, more than anything else, accounting for his ill humour.

"You call that a fleet?" he thundered. Some peons and grunts flinched at his tone, but the ship captains looked none the worse for wear. They had, after all, been fighting a losing battle for years.

There were seventeen ships all told. Five were large dreadnoughts, bristling with weapons and armour, while other were swifter, lighter destroyers. Three others, the strangest of it, was the giant turtles, set with a canopy allowing crews to dive underwater. Given what he'd heard, this was a mere fraction of what the Horde Fleet had once been.

Yet that wasn't the worst of it. The ships themselves were in sorry shape, Hellscream saw with acute displeasure. Sails had been patched many times, and many of the ships still had battle damage, missing cannons, and a dire lack of supplies needed for battle.

This was a defeated fleet. And Grom Hellscream had never been able to even smell the possibility of defeat.

"Is that all?" he demanded the eldest of the captains, "That's all the ships that can fight gathered here?"

"No, chieftain. We have some more. I've sent word to captain Hraak, and also to captains Jegthar and Krelt. They have small warbands themselves. We can probably scrap up forty ships to fight." The captain said. Simply, and yet firmly. He wasn't quaking before Hellscream, and the chieftain found it both annoying and strangely calming at the same time.

"Forty! And how many ships does that Alliance Fleet has?"

"Ten times as many. Maybe more."

Hellscream growled angrily, and controlled himself to prevent an outburst. Now was not the time to lose control, he knew. He had to show the orcs gathered there that he had a plan, that Ner'Zhul had a plan. It had been hard enough, even with Zuluhed's help, to secure the ships. The last thing he needed was to offend something which could be crucial to him.

"Ten times, eh?" he muttered. "Not easy. It won't be easy. But I'm sure we can do it." He said confidently.

The captains looked at each other for a moment, clearly questioning, and one cleared his throat and asked what must have been burning in everyone's mind.

"And, chieftain, what is it we're supposed to do?"

"When the time is right, this fleet is going to disable the Kul Tiras shipyards." Was what Hellscream said. He gauged the reaction carefully.

They might as well have been told that Orgrim Doomhammer had been a traitor and was now enjoying riches in the human lands. The captains all but gaped, and the sailors near the ships actually stopped to look at the Warsong leader. Hellscream wondered if he might not have somewhat underestimated what he'd just said. But there was no going back on it. That was, after all, Ner'Zhul's plan, and he had vowed to carry it out.

"Assault Havenport with only forty ships?" The elder captain questioned. "Chieftain, I won't send my men to needless death. Havenport is heavily guarded, and a good-sized fleet of battleships protects it."

"We attacked Havenport when the fleet was at its strongest. We had more ships, in better shape than this." Another said, "And we still failed."

Hellscream had been expecting some things not to go according to his wishes. In the intervening time between his coming to the human lands and the present, he'd come to accept – in a sense – that his people had truly been defeated, that the humans were rebuilding on the lands the Horde had previously conquered. He had accepted it.

But fatigued, cynicism, defeatism? That, he had never accepted. Giving in to his emotions, he swatted the captain who had just spoken aside with his fist, sending the orc into the waters. He then turned to glare at the others, while all seemed to stand still.

"You people sound like Draenei." He said with as much contempt as he could put in his voice. "You talk about possibilities, and you cower behind them! Is that all that remains of the orcs in this world? Have you become like those…goblins… I heard of?"

That, too, had a reaction. The orc captains bristled at the comparison, and one even started to bring his axe out of his belt. He didn't go far before he found Hellscream's blade pointed at his chest. The blademaster met the captain's gaze, glare for baleful glare.

"You're ready to kill, aren't you?" he drawled, "You can't stand it, can you? But I wonder if you have the heart to attack me. I think you have the blood of Draenei. The blood of fools and cowards!"

At that the axe came up, and with a howl, the orc swatted the blade aside and lunged. Deftly, Hellscream stepped aside, kneeing the younger orc, and hitting him over the head with the blunt side of his blade. The captain went down, but not permanently. Growling, he struggled to get up. Hellscream looked at him viciously, joyously.

'He wants to kill me now.' He reasoned. 'I would, after being compared to Draenei. Good! Good! Maybe there's still some good blood in these people yet, not the puny gusts of illusion like Zuluhed, or Grimfrost's nether-damned cowardice.'

"I see that there's some fighting spirit in you captain!" He growled. "Stop before I have to kill you."

"I don't care if you kill me! You insult me, and you insult my blood! I come from warriors!" the captain growled, drawing to his feet, axe ready. "I might get killed by you, but you'll see that I'm no coward!"

Hellscream laughed at that, victorious. He could feel the blood boiling again in orcish veins. He could see their anger, their warrior's code, emerging from the many years of running and shame. This was what he had fought so hard for.

"Well said!" he exclaimed. "By the Beyond, well said! And as I've said, there's no need for fighting! You've proven your worth! You've proven there's warrior's blood coursing through you. Take hold of it now, and always hold on to it!"

He turned while the others stood, confused and angry, and looked over the sailors, over the warriors he had brought, over everyone.

"We are orcs! Never forget that! None of you! We're orcs, and fighting is what we're best at!" he shouted, lifting his blade. "Don't you want to fight? Don't you want a chance to give pain back to the humans who imposed shame on you! Don't you want to fight?"

There was a stir at that. Grumbling and weak cries from the ships. A tremor of passion. Hellscream saw that little flame and blew upon it as though his life depended on it.

"We will strike at Havenport, and we'll give the humans a blow that'll make them remember us! They'll remember that Horde still exists! That we aren't defeated! And that we won't ever let ourselves be defeated!" he shouted, and this time, the orcs shouted in glee. His men, the sailors, even many of the captains. Only the eldest seemed to contain their enthusiasm.

He had them. These orcs, Hellscream knew, would fight again, no matter the odds.

Maybe the day wasn't as cloudy as he'd first thought.

Still, he knew that he had the odds stacked against him. He'd heard that Kul Tiras had been the key naval power which had defeated the Horde fleets on the sea. To have some freedom over the waters, it had been a good idea at the time, to cripple it enough so that its fleets would keep closer to shore.

It bothered Hellscream to see that the task was even mightier than he'd first thought it'd be. It didn't, however, discourage him in the least. He eagerly awaited the challenge.

The elder captain, who had seemed the least affected by the short fight and the cheers, calmed his people swiftly. The look he gave Hellscream was approving, but still contained doubts.

"Even with the ships, even if we fight at our best," he said, sounding far too reasonably for the hot elation permeating the troops. "We still can't say that we'll be able to cripple Havenport, even for a short while. What's going to stop the human fleets in the waters from closing in on us as we attack?" From the sudden looks around him, Hellscream could see the subject was worth noting. The chieftain, however, was now calm and confident. He had prepared for that particular argument.

"There's no problem about that, brothers." He said warmly, grinning. "I have a very good distraction in mind."

"A distraction?"

"Yes. The best distraction there is: dragons!"

* * *

Autumn 606, Stormwind, Azeroth

Teron Gorefiend had to admit that the humans had managed to reconstruct Stormwind rather well over the past few years. He had known that much of the city, when it had fallen, had been left to rubble, Stormwind Keep ground to dust, and the human wizards' arrogant tower subverted to Gul'Dan's needs. Much of the population had fled to Lordaeron, while the rest had died defending the walls and the rest had been scattered or force to work until they died.

And yet, Stormwind had literally risen out of its ashes, looking quite alive, and its walls thicker than ever before. If the Horde attacked again, it would take another great battle to breach the walls.

However, it would take much longer for Stormwind's magical defences to return to previous levels. Although many wards were already in place, they weren't complete yet. It had been easy for Theros' group to find a hole that their magic could poke through. Not only within the city, but within the rebuilt Stormwind Keep itself.

They came in like a dark nightmare, descending upon the wide halls like black-garbed abominations out of the shadows themselves. That had been the effect intended – to heighten the unnatural, to keep the human guards from grasping the situation.

The servants – sleepy-eyed from a long day's work within the royal keep – fled as soon as they saw the apparitions, while the nearby guards turned to fight, drawing their swords.

"Enemy raid! Protect King Varien!"" one shouted, moving towards the death knights quickly. Several others followed him into the fray.

Maybe the guards moved in out of sheer bravery, or a sense of duty. It only seemed suicidal to Gorefiend, who swiftly spoke words of necromantic powers, and quickly leeched the life out of several soldiers. The other five of the strike group cast similar spells, and cries of unearthly agony echoed, the guards squirming and flailing, until they lay still on the floor.

Not still for long, however. With more power channelled from rotten lips and fingers, the new corpses came to life, devoid of intellect and completely obedient. They were ordered to keep any humans from assailing them. Although the orcish spirit knew they could never hope to hold off a true force of soldiers and knights, they would work as a temporary deterrent.

"Search this wing." He mused, "I am certain that they have the object we want here."

"Wouldn't they have hidden it within their magical vaults?" one queried as the zombies shambled off towards the sounds of a coming human force.

"They would be," he admitted, "But I doubt that the vaults have been rebuilt yet. But this wing is full of magical wards. Search everywhere! It is here that the most precious items should be!"

Before they could begin the search, however, Gorefiend saw the zombies faltering, as if something was pressing against them. For a moment, the death knight was confused, before a wave of nausea hit him, making him grunt. Priest magic. Some human nearby was calling their so-called Holy Light against the undead. Priest or Silver Hand warrior, it didn't truly matter. Gorefiend knew that this might be trouble.

"Teron, this-"a death knight said, more weakly than usual.

"Yes. I feel it. Let's search quickly. They're rallying more quickly than I anticipated."

They went down the hall, magic bursting through even the thickest of doors, spells slaying those few who remained swiftly. Wards were broken in, as they went deeper into the keep's wing.

The magic was getting stronger. Gorefiend could feel it. The remaining Azerothian wizards had worked hard on this part of the Keep, and had all but restored its wards. That showed that they wanted this wing protected at all costs. He was getting close to what he aimed to take.

Finally, they came upon a door. In thick blackwood, woven with runes of warding and power, it was a sight of both beauty and danger. Gorefiend placed his hands on the surface and examined the woven threads. He was told little – the humans had done good work – but he gleaned some weaknesses from what he felt, weaknesses he could exploit to break the door's magical defence apart.

There was a noise farther off, and the last thread of undead power snapped from the place the zombies were fighting. The priest or paladin had finished his work. And would be coming for them. Although one didn't matter, it would bring others. And, if it came to that, it might bring Alonsus Faol, one of the few priests he had no wish to test.

Not that it mattered, either. He would be long gone before the aged archbishop came. Reaching out for the magic, Gorefiend began to recite words of power, words of power that none save Ner'Zhul could presently use in the Horde.

The door's powers tried to counteract the spell, threads of arcane might arcing back and forth, forming patterns of warding across the surface. The intricacy of them all were fascinating to behold, and what made Gorefiend a spellcaster wished he had more time to study the glyphs, to understand and acquire them.

But that was a luxury he didn't have. Instead, the undead warlock pushed his will forward, his words and magic parting the warding, forcing the threads apart, until, after a long period of contention, he raised his head and fixed the door once more. He spoke a few quick syllables, and the heavy door blew apart, allowing him and his people inside.

They went in quickly, and more than one of the death knights stopped to gaze for a moment.

The Emerald Tower where the Conjurors had lives had been taken and sacked, but the Shadow Council had known that much of the artefacts and knowledge had been secreted away. In this wing, some of that knowledge – and that power – was there for them to see.

Spellbooks, treatises of arcane lore could be seen, neatly stacked. Row of scrolls, no doubt powerful, were also present, as was the myriad of swords, armours and shields which had been crafted for great human kings and warriors in centuries past. It was a treasure trove which warmed even the death knight's cold, rotting body.

"All of this is nothing," he finally said, "Next to what we've come here to take. Remember, it is a large spellbook, bound in plain, brown leather, with the sigils of a raven on it. Tell me when you have found what we seek."

"How will we know it is the one?" one death knight queried.

"Remember, brother, that we are seeking a book of magic written by Medivh. Medhiv, who was feared for his power, even by our former master. You will know."

They spread out to search the room, which was much larger than it had been. Or should be. Evidently the space within had been warped by magic to allow more inside, the death knight reasoned.

It didn't take long before someone found something and called him over. The sight, however, brought him no pleasure. Gorefiend glared with his red orbs as he surveyed the corpse. A mage by his garb, with blood everywhere, seeping into the spilled pages of a scroll, and standing near an intricate box which still had strong warding remnants upon it. There were raven sigils upon the box.

A wave of anger assailed the death knight, but it quickly mastered it. Still, there must have been a harsh edge to his usually neutral, eerie voice to make the other undead cringe. He coldly asked who had killed the mage, and received a bloody, magical dagger as an answer. He looked it over, noticing the shape of an eagle on its hilt. It wasn't hard to understand who had done this deed.

"Alterac." The death knight fairly hissed, and this time there was no stopping the wave of rage which swept over him. Alterac, the cowardly little nation, the puny little human nation. A nation so puny that it had betrayed its own Alliance to save itself, and therefore had been punished by near destruction by the other humans.

Cowards who now possessed one of the necessary items which would allow the Horde – and the power which Gorefiend intended to one day reap – to soar to a position of unshakable mastery. It was too much to bear, and yet he bore it, his rage seething beneath the surface.

"Foul undead! How dare you penetrate King Varien's keep!" A voice called.

"Prepare to meet the Holy Light, abominations!" Another said.

Gorefiend whirled in anger, to see a group of heavily armoured humans carefully edging their way towards the death knights. All of them wore the armour that had not been worn until the royal line had been restored, the Brotherhood of the Horse. All of them except two, who bore the sigils of the Silver Hand. It was these paladins who led the group.

"Paladins, your arrogance is not only annoying, but infuriating." The undead leader muttered, "And it comes when I'm quite infuriated to begin with."

And with that, he began chanting. He no longer cared for secrecy. The Book of Medivh was gone, taken by cowards, and there was nothing precious to protect.

It meant that, when they left, Gorefiend would leave a wake of death throughout Stormwind Keep, to remind the Alliance that the Horde was still alive, and still very much deadly.

"Let us begin." He mused, and he unleashed death upon the humans.

* * *

Autumn 606, Redridge Mountains, Azeroth

Gelmar Thornfeet stared down at the bodies. In his mind, there was nothing more horrific. It went against everything he had come to believe in.

Before him were the bodies of two human children. They had been killed – savagely, it would seem – by an orcish weapon, wielded in the style only an orc could use. The look on the children's faces showed that they had died in pain and fear. They had died crying for help, and none had come.

The spirits nearby were humming with grief, their disapproval clear to the shaman's mind. Even if they hadn't spoken, however, the former necrolyte wouldn't have felt different. This was the act of an orc, but the sort of orc who couldn't be saved. One, he admitted, he probably wouldn't want to save.

He had found the children while walking with Borkom's people. Borkom himself was there now, and looked at the bodies in furious disgust.

"Unforgivable." Was all that the orc leader said, his voice heavy with emotion. He looked at his warriors. "Search the area. If you find anything, bring word to me immediately."

Thornfeet only shook his head, to clear away the anger clouding his judgement. The bloodlust, something he faced rarely these days, had been brought up particularly strongly when he'd seen the act. Still, he forced his will upon that anger, and cast it aside. All that remained was the sorrow, and the children's face.

"Orclings, no older than four human years." He said as he knelt before them. Gently, he put a hand on each brow and closed his eyes. "Spirits eternal, please give these innocent ones peace. Ask them for forgiveness, if they will give it." He opened his eyes to see Borkom shaking his head. "You disapprove."

"No," the leader said immediately. "I took in a human child and raised it as my own. I know that this was something I can't forgive. That orc hates humans beyond all reason. That orc would do the same to my son. I will not have that orc near my campsite."

It was even worse for the shaman. After all of the enlightenment, the attempts to bring the orcs as a race back from the abyss, seeing these actions did more than wound him. It left him doubting, ever so slightly. It left him doubting that his people could be saved, that their savagery could be removed and their souls saved. It made him doubt the work of many years.

He hated himself for thinking that way, yet he couldn't help himself.

And he hated that orc even more because of it. Hate was also something he rarely let in, but it was strong in his heart now.

"The bodies must be buried." The shaman said, "And their remains blessed so that nothing may disturb their rest."

"We aren't of their religion. Even you, Patriarch, can't give them the rites that their Holy Light priesthoods would give these little ones." Borkom pointed out.

"Yes." He admitted. "But I will give them my shamanistic rites, and ask the spirits to watch over them. I only ask your help in burying them. I'll…take care of the rest of the ceremony."

Borkom stared at the bodies again, but there was only pity in his eyes now. "It wouldn't be right to leave them like this. This shouldn't be our way."

"No, my friend. It wasn't once, and must never be again." The shaman said, empathically nodding. He would never allow his race to escape what salvation it could find. Although he somehow knew that the one who will build a future for orcs wasn't yet come, he intended to make certain to remove what corruption he could. And to remove those far too corrupted to be saved.

It was then that he heard it. A voice drifting through the spiritual realm. It appeared to Thornfeet that the spirits, for a reason he couldn't yet fathom, had been strongly feeling the killer's aura. One of them, it appeared, had found the quarry, and carried foreboding with its news.

"Take care of the human children. I'll return soon." He said, and he called upon the spirits to pierce the veils of nature for a moment, allowing him to step from one place to another in mere instants. It was a rather draining power, though, and it took a few moments for Thornfeet to regain his senses. When, finally, he did, he found that the killer had seen him, and was advancing on him menacingly.

It was a sight that such as he'd seen only a few times before in his life. The orc before him was taller than most, more muscular than was usual. Veins bulged as if an unholy fire burned in the orc's vein, something probable. What told the former necrolyte all he needed to know, however, was the reddish tinge to the orc's skin. This was an orc whose bloodlust, whose hatred had consumed him.

An orc who was now only a pawn of the demons who had tainted Thornfeet's people.

"So, your soul has been lost, hasn't it." The shaman stated coolly. Before him was the path that the bloodlust would lead his people to, and he found himself beyond aghast at the very sight. "Or, if not lost, irrevocably tainted."

The other orc growled in an animalistic fashion, and for a moment the shaman thought that the battle would be joined at once. It took a moment longer to understand that the sounds coming from the other's throat was a sort of terrible, warped laughter. Thornfeet's eyes narrowed slightly, and he prepared himself mentally.

There was no way for him to cleanse such a taint by himself, even if he was in the state of mind necessary to make the attempt. This time, he knew, violence would inevitably erupt. Seeing the dead children's faces, he found himself less reluctant than usual to carry out the deed.

The tainted orc, however, seemed not to notice anything about that. It seemed strangely joyful.

"Ah, a brother! It's good to see you!" it crowed, "I've just given some worthless humans the death they all deserve! Do you want to come with me and find some more?"

"The death they deserve? What did these children do to our people, to anyone, to deserve that? These weren't human warriors. Just the equivalent of orclings. You coward." Thornfeet fairly spat. Flames seemed to take shape in the red orc's eyes, and it seized its axe firmly, its face twisting into a feral mask.

"Don't ever use that voice with me, brother! I give the humans what they deserve!" he snapped, "Young or old, that doesn't matter. They're guilty. All of them."

"Orcs like you… are the reason I fight. You're what I hope to eradicate, you tainted abomination." Thornfeet answered, undeterred. "You won't ever kill such innocence as that of children again."

There was no place for talk anymore. Thornfeet had plainly challenged the orc, and neither would back down. The tainted orc hefted his axe and charged forward, only to stumble and fall as vines grew from the soil, holding him in place. In tremendous rage, it tried to stand, but Thornfeet brought more power into play.

Yet the fight wasn't over yet. To the shaman's surprise, the vines were broken by the counterforce, and the fallen orc stood, his eyes glaring unthinking rage into Thornfeet's surprised ones. Still, the shaman had enough reflexes to put up a barrier which stopped the blow, yet left him wincing. Relentlessly, the enraged orc, having lost all apparent reason, began to beat at that protection.

This went far, very far, beyond insanity. Something foul was tainting the spiritual area, and he knew what it was. The Burning Legion, the Horde's actual masters. Just an inkling of them, and already too much.

'There's no turning back. I can't use reason this time.' Thornfeet decided, and despite his rage, he felt pity for the orc's soul. But pity did not excuse what had been done, and the shaman drew within himself and condensed what powers remained in his heart, merging them with that of surrounding spiritual hues, and quickly released the power at the enemy.

It was as if the orc had begun to combust, and yet no trace of fire could be seen. Spiritual flames that only the shaman could see attacked the tainted one, who growled in rage and pain, hitting the shield and flailing about. As time wore on, the orc's skin began to lose its red tinge, and regained its natural green, even as the hits became weaker. Finally, after they were all but gone, Thornfeet conjured a lance of pure, spiritual energy, and threw it at the enemy. With a surprised cry, it fell.

The other orc had not been a challenge. Thornfeet hadn't expected it, either. Having faced Gul'Dan in single combat, little presented an appreciable challenge anymore. But that didn't matter. Fair or not, he felt no pity for the orc, who was everything that the orcish people had to change.

"There are others who will change." He muttered. "Are we doomed to a life of corruption and spiritual decay?"

With a heavy heart, head full of doubts, Gelmar Thornfeet called upon the spirits once more and stepped back towards the sad scene he had left. He had innocents to bury.

Carrion could take care of the tainted.

* * *

Late Autumn 606, Dark Portal Plains, Dreanor

The meeting was being held inside Turalyon's war tent. The army would have to live in tents for several weeks, while structures were being tirelessly erected, including a makeshift barracks, some towers and a command center of wood and stone. It would take time, however, for the army to attain a level of permanency on Draenor. And so, the three met as they had done so many times before.

Turalyon looked at the two men. Swiftblade looked a little pale yet, having spent several days bedridden after the lengthy battle had reopened dangerous wounds. The paladin felt a twinge of regret at having the weakened man attend the meeting, but he needed the tactician's skill and judgement.

The other looked tired, but uninjured. Although he had taken part in the fighting, Illadan Eltrass had managed to survive it unscathed. Turalyon didn't much care for the high elves and their arrogant ways. Eltrass, however, had proven to be a fair, good leader with reliable thinking. He needed the elf as well.

"We have managed to secure the region around the portal." Turalyon said, "However, I think we should be very cautious as to our next phase."

"I agree." Illadan nodded, looking every bit the noble lord despite his ranger garments. "We should have some of the mages scry the surrounding regions and send in more trackers and scouts. The terrain is at our disadvantage."

"The whole planet is our disadvantage." Turalyon agreed, "We know next to nothing about this world. And, unlike the orcs before the First War, they know we're here. So our time is short. What do you think, lord Swiftblade? General Swiftblade?"

The man coughed and looked ready to fall asleep for a moment, before rousing himself in his chair. Despite his pale looks, however, his eyes remained firm. Swiftblade had recovered in mind, if not yet in body.

"Why are we the only ones here, sir?" he asked. Despite having anticipated it, the question's timing took the Paladin by surprise a bit.

"Pardon, general?"

"I have been wondering about that, myself." Illadan added quickly, his fair elven complexion showing calm curiosity. "Why are we the only ones at this meeting? Shouldn't the whole command be here?"

The paladin sighed despite himself. He had known that the question would come, and knew that his reasons were sound. Even so, he didn't like putting some people above others. It went against the edicts of both the Church of the Holy Light and the Order of the Silver Hand. It, however, fit the position of High General like a glove.

'I suppose I have to live with these dual standards. But I won't do so forever.' He promised himself.

"I have decided to ask your opinions first. I know that it may not be the wisest thing to do, but I do believe that it will be better in the long run." He said.

Swiftblade looked less than convinced. Turalyon didn't blame him. After his many quarrels with Rellon Minvare, it certainly appeared as if the paladin was shunning others to make certain the one he really didn't want to see would not be present. It is because of that that he fixed the general he had come to trust implicitly evenly.

"It is not a question of trust. I want to make certain of certain things. Make some guidelines clear. Then, when our general plan is ready, we will iron out the details with the others." Turalyon mused, "It would be the height of foolishness not to do so."

They didn't quite believe that, either. The fact that more debate would arise if the whole command structure discussed future plans wasn't enough to warrant bringing in so few to discuss them, including some of the Lord-Generals. They wouldn't push that fact forward, however. He could see that as well.

"We have the main base; we have resources coming in from our work relatively steadily, so there's no problem there." Eltrass said at length. "That covers defence and resource-gathering."

"Not quite. But the first thing we will do is set up scouts, like you proposed. We have three full wings of Gryphon riders here already, as well as your elven scouts and some of those flying gnome contraptions. Our knowledge and security should increase in the coming weeks." Turalyon stated. Swiftblade stirred again at that.

"We can't afford to waste weeks. We can wait a week to consolidate ourselves. No more. We have the advantage and the momentum. We should use it."

That had occurred to the paladin, of course. However, that sort of action wasn't quite his style. Although he understood the need for swift action, Turalyon was one who was more intent on careful manoeuvring. Swiftblade, however, had built his reputation on quick movements and surprising actions. The 'Invincible' had won a streak of great victories with that pattern as well.

"Go forward?" Eltrass said. "But where?"

"South." Came the decisive reply. Colour had returned to Swiftblade's face somewhat, and he hammered the table in front of him to make his point. "We've questioned prisoners, and it seems that the orcs here have established a small naval base south of here. We're talking about defence and possible later offensives. We will need that place. We need its oil, and we need ships built there."

"Ships? We'll need these weeks just to build a very small fleet. You know how hard it is to build just one, and we don't have the resources that Havenport or any of the great shipyards. They'll cut us off from the sea easily." The elven general exclaimed. Even Turalyon was taken aback by the recklessness of the man's plan. He knew better than to question it, though.

"In this world, the Alliance has no naval forces. And we have no time to build one." His thoughts raced. This could truly be crippling if Dreanor had much in the way of seas."

"Perhaps magic can help us in this endeavour." Eltrass mused. Swiftblade shook his head.

"I doubt that even a strong mage can transport an entire ship here."

"With the correct spells, we can, if we have enough people casting them." Eltrass said. "We did it once before, when we retook Khaz Modan. We transported twenty ships overland and struck with them. We can do it again."

Turalyon thought about that. As with all paladins and priests of the Holy Light, he had never had much faith in the arcane. He had always felt, from his very childhood and forth, that the elves and the people of Dalaran were too dependant on a force which they barely understood at all. It bothered him to have to rely on it now.

What was more damning, however, was that he might not have much of a choice in the matter. Faith could only carry one so far, despite the Silver Hand's wishes.

"We will lose most of our spellcasters in the operation." Swiftblade mused, "But it really might give us the edge we need."

Turalyon sighed. There was no helping it. "Very well. General Eltrass, arrange it so you can carry that fleet to a secluded point near those shipyards. General Swiftblade, prepare an attack force. We will strike at the shipyards from land and sea. Hopefully, that will be enough to secure our sea power for some time."

There was a flash of crimson energy, a tension in the air, and Khadgar appeared besides the seated generals, startling them. Swiftblade and Eltrass had their hand on their hilt before seeing who it was. It did not abate the concern the three were feeling, however. Khadgar did not play such tricks for no reason.

"We may have greater problems than merely securing our power base here." The archmage told them. "In fact, we may be facing the greatest trial we have ever faced since the Troll Wars."

"A trial only seen once in millennia? It seems that our age is rife with these things." Eltrass said coolly, yet the concern was clear in his voice.

"It is. This age will bring chaos to our world, and I cannot see its end yet. But this particular even might have far worse repercussions than even the First and Second Wars combined."

"Enough riddles, archmage." Swiftblade said, his eyes strained. His wounds were sapping him of his strength. "What's so apocalyptic that you think the world is going to end?"

"The spellbook of my former master, Medivh, has been stolen from Stormwind Keep." Khadgar said evenly. "Possibly by the Death Knights, who caused chaos in the royal city. In this spellbook, Medhiv has written great spells of destruction. He also, I think, wrote how he brought the Dark Portal into being."

"What are you telling us, wizard?" Turalyon snapped. But it was rhetorical. He could see what it might mean, and it was a frightening vision.

"Why, good generals, I am telling you that the Horde might soon open many more portals to other world." The archmage stated ominously. "And that if they are not stopped now, they never will be."

* * *

Late Autumn 606, Stormwind, Azeroth

Onyxia gave her restless companion an amused glance. "Now, now. Patience is a virtue, my good Lord Nefarius."

The man who paced would have been imposing to most humans. Muscular, hair like smoke, garbed in lacquered black armour, he would have been something men would shy from, and which would easily bring respect and fear from them. These men, of course, would have no idea that the imposing man was the ancient black dragon known as Nefarian.

The man was looking at her balefully now, but it didn't matter much. Aside from the traitorous Haranash, she was the eldest of Neltharion's children, born when he had still held that name. Nefarian knew better than to cross her. It didn't stop him, however, from showing his anger.

"Don't ever take that sort of tone with me, Onyxia." He said, sneering. "Or, should I say, lady Katrana Prestor."

"Both names fit me. And I enjoy what both of them have to offer. I advise you do the same." She answered, pushing herself into her plush, cushioned chair. She took the decanter near her and began to pour herself a drink. "Do you want some, old friend?"

"Bah. Since when have we been friends?" The other dragon muttered. "I for one would abandon this primitive, weak form forever. Bothering to eat human food, to wear human clothes. To live among them. Pah! Ridiculous."

"Am I?" She asked with a warning in her voice. She swept her slender hand towards the large, open balcony. From there, one could see much of the richer parts of the city, at the center of which stood Stormwind Keep. "Look at this city, old fool, and tell me what you see."

"An illusion built by a weak race. Arrogant piles of stone. Nothing worth my time." Nefarian snapped.

Onyxia nodded. Nefarian's contempt for humans – indeed for all of the weaker races – was well known. Even the Night Elves didn't find grace in his eyes. All Nefarian understood was brute force and military power. The only thing he had ever liked about humans was the sight of some of their armies waging mighty battles. The simplicity of mortal life eluded him.

"I understand what you say. But I don't quite see it that way." She gave him a smirk, "What I see is a means to power. Humans are weak and fragile as individuals, but they own this city and the lands about. They have sway over much of this part of the world. Once that is understood, this human guise becomes very useful."

"That's why you spent twenty years with these mortals?" he scoffed, "To have some humans at your beck and call?"

"You'd be surprised how enjoyable that can be." She countered, "Besides, I've made several strides. Lothar was too stubborn to be manipulated, but I did secure a vast part of the Prestor wealth. And the king is much easier to approach. Eventually, this realm will be mine to play with, my power base."

It had been rather amusing, as well. She had carefully crafted her persona after her Lord's, but claimed to come from an Azerothian branch of the family. It had been easy to find and kill the true Katrana, as well as her parents, and arrange to take her place. Growing amidst the luxury given her had been enjoyable, in more than one way.

The wars had been leaner times, but she had persevered, helping the kingdom with her advice, becoming a favoured confidante to the future King Varien's wife. From then on, it had been easy to carve herself a position of power amongst the nobility, and to bring many lesser nobles and soldiers under her. Even the ancient Fordragon or upstart Swiftblade houses had lesser power than she actually did. And that was only the beginning.

She envisioned Azeroth as one day conquering the wild lands to the south, and Khaz Modan to the north. She saw the Golden Lion banner one day fluttering from Silvermoon to the criminal hub that was Booty Bay. With the black dragons carefully controlling everything that transpired, and her controlling them all. She would build an empire spanning the eastern lands.

Once that empire was secure, she would lay waste to the Kaldorei and that insufferable Malfurion Stormrage. She'd cut him and his annoying Tyrande down, and kill their beloved Cenarius. She would control everything then, and would bring the world under her control.

That would take centuries, of course. But since when had that mattered to her. It just meant that the enjoyment would be long as she – and her 'descendants' – slowly rose to absolute power.

"I heard you made certain some of the people who rebuilt the city never found their due." Nefarian pointed out, "Hardly foresight there. But enough of all of this mortal talk. You must have heard about that Hellscream and his Warsong Clan."

She frowned, if only for a moment. Nefarian, of course, didn't miss it.

"Not quite part of your plans, is he? He's asking for our dear father's people to help him." He wrinkled his nose. "Humans, dwarves, trolls, orcs. All of these mortals always think too highly of themselves."

"They do." She admitted. "That much is true, Nefarian. They do." She drank some of what she had poured. Wine brought from Gilneas. Rare indeed, given that nation's increasing isolation.

"And we still need to consider that orc's request."

"Because of Lord Deathwing."

"Of course." It seemed as if Nefarian didn't know whether to look sardonic or frustrated. But, then, he wasn't very good at human facial expressions.

Onyxia thought about that. Deathwing's word was law. The only black dragon that had ever refused his command and lived had long since vanished from view. Whatever that one had done, it was something that she couldn't do. To gather the power she needed, she had need for visibility.

It meant that Grom Hellscream would be getting attention she felt that the orc – or the entire orcish race, for that matter – did not deserve.

"If it wasn't for the fact that our Lord wanted to use them for his own ends, I'd have ordered them burned to death long ago." She muttered. She glanced at the human city. "I won't allow them to put this city in danger for the time being, however."

"I daresay our patriarch isn't looking for that, either. He's looking to bring Terenas and Lordaeron under his control." Nefarian mused, "Though I wonder what he hopes to achieve."

"He seems to have his sights set on Alterac. A realm to call his own." Onyxia wondered if she'd kept her tone even. It was dangerous to show contempt for one whose power far exceeded her own. Yet she couldn't see what use small, poor Alterac would serve. Not that it mattered. She had goals to build a far greater realm, from far greater sources.

"Well, what do they want?" she asked at length.

"At least twenty of our people. Thirty if we can give them." Nefarian said angrily. His mien told Onyxia that the orc's arrogance was infuriating him. She didn't feel much happiness about it, either.

"And do we have so many? Our Lord brought quite a few of his best with him on Draenor." She mused.

"We can send some of the younger ones. If that chieftain isn't satisfied, then I'll tell him exactly why he should be." Nefarian said, grinning wickedly. There was no question that the explanation would be lethal to the orc. A warrior through and through, and a sadist. There had never been any subtlety in Onyxia's younger sibling.

There was a knock on the door, and the male dragon looked at her askance. She gestured him to be calm. "There was a spell on the room. Our conversation went unheard. Enter!"

A young maid entered, curtsying to them both before speaking. The King had sent for her. It appeared that he might have to summon the House of Nobles for a decision regarding involvement with Lordaeron's recent plans.

"And he has requested me for counsel?" she mused idly, draining another glass of Gilnean wine. She smiled. It was going nearly exactly as she had planned it. "Very well. I can't refuse an order from His Majesty, can I?"

The servant having left, Onyxia rose from her plush chair. And faced her younger brother.

"The orcs want our help? I say we give it to them. The Horde is too weak for now to hope to defeat the Alliance. However…" she stared at Stormwind Keep, with its proud pennants.

"Yes?" Nefarian asked. His patience was clearly spent, and he probably yearned to be free of his human form.

"The orcs want to trade us for aid, don't they?" she asked, and grinned.

"Then, let us make certain that we sell that very aid as dearly as possible."

* * *

The House of Nobles

The House of Nobles is considered one of the main powers in the Kingdom of Azeroth. Although the Royal House of Wrynn holds the reins of power, it is balanced by both the Church of the Holy Light – led by the Archbishop Alonsus Faol – and the highest-ranking noble houses.

The House of Nobles was formed nearly a hundred years before the formation of the Church of the Holy Light, as an advisory board to the King, something which allowed the great houses to grow in wealth and power. The House served for almost seven centuries, but was unofficially disbanded when Azeroth began to fail to the Horde in 586. The disjointed nobles only had a passing influence on politics during the years of exile and the Second War which nearly tore the continent asunder.

When Azeroth was liberated from the Horde's power and its citizens returned, the Great Houses were re-established, and King Varien Wrynn announced the reformation of the House of Nobles in 602. It is implied that Katrana Prestor, currently one of the most powerful member of the House, had a hand in the King's decision.

Currently, the House of Nobles is made up of seventeen Great Houses which have a large amount of power – whether financial, political, militaristic or a mix many aforementioned elements. Currently, the Houses of Fordragon, Prestor, Starsheen, Swiftblade and Umarion are the most powerful, but do not agree on many decisions. Prestor, Starsheen and Umarion led the majority in refusing to pay the ones who rebuilt Stormwind, something the Fordragon and Swiftblade Houses denounced.

All of this makes the House of Nobles a hotbed of political intrigues, of chess-like moves and countermoves, and a place where the Kingdom's powerful nobles may discuss the future of their country.


	9. Chapter Eight: Lords and Ruffians

**Chapter Eight: Lords and Ruffians**

Late Autumn 606, Whitefort, Lordaeron

There was no way that this question wouldn't be raised by the Alliance Council. It was simply too important for too many people.

"How long are going to have to preserve the concentration camps?"

It was Genn Greymane, looking regal and self-important, who asked the question. It didn't surprise Azeroth's king that it would be Gilneas which would find a way to destroy whatever positive mood the Council was at that point.

This brought a thundercloud over Terenas' features, and most of the other members soon wore expressions of varying displeasure. The issue had been debated so much, after all, that there seemed to be no point in continuing, especially since both factions wouldn't budge from their position.

Greymane must have sensed all of that. He must have known all of that. But, for all of his arrogance, he'd been ruler of his nation for nearly three decades, and had never shown hesitation once that was known.

"I realize that this may disturb or irritate you, my peers," he mused smoothly, "But I find that we must put a true question on this subject."

"And what would that question be, King Genn?" Daelin Proudmoore asked neutrally. Varien eyed him warily. Proudmoore had sided his Kul Tiras with Lordaeron, Azeroth, Dalaran and Khaz Modan on the issue, but the man's position was uncertain at best. More than many gathered around the meeting table, he had hatred for the Horde. Varien feared it might one day fester too much, and lead to grief.

"The question would be this, King Daelin: How can we keep these monsters here alive, while we spend so much blood and resources, so much labour and gold, to fighting others like them in Dreanor?" He clapped his hand. "How can we justify all of this to the people?"

"We can justify it by not wanting to be like the orcs are. We do not destroy entire races." Varien mused. He knew, however, that it was a thin reason at best.

"Laudable as that may seem on the surface," Greymane countered fiercely, "It still means that we have to maintain extraordinarily expensive sites, maintain armies, supply food, all while fighting another war with the very same people. How is that acceptable?"

"Hear, hear!" Thoras Trollbane of Stromgarde grunted. Like Gilneas, he had been for the orcs' extermination. Given that much of his lands had been destroyed during the Second War, he had some reason for his anger.

There was no reaction from the elven lord who took part of the Council. It had been many years since Quel'Thalas's Queen had been seen outside her lands. The sacking of Silvermoon and her husband's brush with death, it seemed, had made her cold towards the outside world, and the elves were becoming increasingly – and willingly – isolated. They, like Gilneas and Stromgarde, also wanted the orcs eliminated.

Terenas rose. He did so with his usual presence, but no one could miss the apparent slowness in the movement, the slight hesitations. Age, it seemed, was quickly catching up to the King. While it would not be very soon, King Varien thought that the young, brash Arthas would be king within ten years, fifteen at the most. If one was an optimist. If one wasn't…

"This decision was difficult at best. You here all know that. I didn't forward it lightly, or without much thought on it." Terenas intoned, his deep voice commanding despite the age behind it. "Six years ago, we convened in Whitefort and made this decision. We have a duty to uphold that decision now. Not only for our people, but for ourselves."

"We never agreed to that decision!" Greymane said, the heat in his voice partly dismissing his former cultured tone. "You made that decision, Terenas, and used your weight and Lord Lothar's memory to carry it through! You have no right to dictate Alliance policy!"

Terenas gave the lord of Gilneas a grim look. "You're wrong. Lordaeron was acknowledged as the Patron Nation of the Alliance, and that the Alliance would follow its lead. It does give me some power over Alliance policy. But that decision was by no means mine alone. The majority voted for the concentration camps."

"The majority!" Greymane scoffed. "No council will decide Gilneas' actions except for Gilneas' ruler." Varien did not miss the warning in his voice. Neither, he was sure, did any of the assembled kings and ambassadors.

"Speaking of the concentration camps, Lord Antonidas," Wrynn said, hoping to distract things from the confrontation which might erupt at any moment. "You said you had studied the orcs and found some interesting elements, did you not?"

The archmage seemed not to hear, lost in apparent thought, brows furrowed. He looked worried about something unseen. This caused many to look at each other askance. Not many trusted wizards, but they knew that whatever worried their ilk, might be quite a problem for others. Varien cleared his throat. It was at times like these that Lothar was truly missed. More than anyone else, his presence commanded, inspired.

"Lord Antonidas?" Azeroth's king repeated in a calm, but stronger voice. This seemed to snap the spellcaster out of whatever he'd been thinking.

Despite that, the looks the rulers continued to give each other said it all: what was happening in Dalaran? Its capital city, probably the greatest architectural marvel built through arcane knowledge, had been having severe problems, and what little had been learned through agents was that it had been attacked. The wizards, however, refused any Alliance aid.

"Yes, the concentration camps." He said after a moment, regaining his composure. "Yes, well, I have studied the orcs there, and I have found some very interesting facts. It would appear, for one, that the orcs are developing apathy of sorts."

"Apathy? The greenskins? That'll be the day." Magni Bronzebeard, king of the Dwarves of Khaz Modan, muttered. He had voted for the concentration camps out of loyalty for Lordaeron and Azeroth, which had been the bulk of the troops used to liberate Ironforge.

Loyalty and gratitude.

Certainly not agreement.

"And yet, good King Magni," Antonidas answered, "And yet, my findings all point to that. They are losing the rage they seemed to possess. I am not saying that they are peaceful yet, of course. But, with a little bit of time, perhaps they can yet be rehabilitated."

"Rehabilitated!" Proudmoore growled, "Rehabilitated! I might have agreed to keep them alive, but not to talk about rehabilitation! These are our enemies!" he told the council angrily. "Did you forget all that they did? I never will!"

His sons, killed. His wife, horribly murdered. No, Varien was fairly certain that the great seafarer would never forget. And never stop hating. The last of the two facts was, by far, the most worrisome. Not that the Horde hadn't taken from Azeroth, either. But his loss hadn't been quite as soul-rending.

"King Daelin is right!" Greymane said fiercely, "Haven't we tolerated this long enough? Do we have to wait until a NEW Horde is formed, a THIRD war begun? Do we send our CHILDREN to fight because we could not act! I say nay to that. Nay, and more. For unless these camps are not destroyed, Gilneas will secede from the Alliance altogether."

Shock filled the room upon these words. Talk of secession had been approached before, but it was the first time that one of the rulers had openly declared it. Even Terenas, rarely at a loss for word, was speechless. What struck Varien, however, was the nod which came from the King of Stromgarde.

'But I cannot be surprised.' Varien thought ruefully, 'The Alliance was built because we faced the direst threat in millennia. It was sustained because we all trusted in Lothar's strength. Now, the threat is weakened and Lothar is dead. And so, we are falling apart, with Gilneas fittingly leaving first.'

Terenas stood up, looking shaken by the announcement. Although the Alliance had initially been Lothar's idea, Lordearon's sovereign had come to believe in it and had done his best to maintain it. Now, it was being destroyed, the unity that the whole continent had achieved eroding. Despite the blow it must have been, the old man's voice didn't flinch.

"The concentration camps are within Alterac or Lordaeron's territories. As I decide what happens within these lands, I reaffirm my intention not to wantonly kill the orc race. I will not let humanity become as vile as the orcs are."

"Then, Terenas, there is no choice left." Greymane said coolly.

"No, King Genn. There is not. You will do what must be done." The old king said firmly, "Rest assured that I will do the same."

The Alliance Council ended on that note, as many had ended in recent years: with increased tensions and distrust on both sides, with courtiers and sycophants vying for attention. Lothar had once told Varien that the Council would one day be doomed to decay and corruption without an enemy to fight. Events were proving him right.

"And yet, I must have some hope in my heart." The King of Azeroth mused.

It was then, when the sovereign councillors were beginning to leave, that they received the message from a flustered courtier: Havenport was under attack by a Horde fleet, and its shipyards were in danger.

* * *

Late Autumn 606, Havenport, Kul Tiras 

Hellscream had known that he couldn't let the people in Havenport prepare. The descriptions ha had of its coastal defences had made that very clear. The fact that the Horde had once tried to invade the city and been repelled had been another fact weighing in.

Massive walls. Reinforced shipyards. A harbour defended by many sturdy cannon towers. The city had been completely reconstructed into something the humans, he supposed, thought to be an impregnable fortress.

'But every fortress has some weakness.' The orc chieftain thought in satisfaction, even as his small fleet fired upon the unprepared city and shipyards.

Human rogues had long been bribed to keep certain orc raiders updated on what happened in Havenport. As the Horde Fleet had been reduced to small, pirate bands of varying size, it made perfect sense to keep their attention on what was unarguably the greatest maritime power on the continent. From these rogues, they had learned that the city's home fleet would be gone on drills, partly during a great festival of some sort.

The festivities, Hellscream had realized, would reach even those guarding, and the city's defences would be incomplete and lax. It was a small moment of weakness, no more than two days. It was impossible to achieve an invasion in such a short time before the human ships returned.

But cripple the city? Disrupt the Alliance fleet? Yes, there was time enough for that.

He had led his thirty ships in just as dusk began to darken the sky, and had struck at night. As expected, the city had been in a frenzy of strange, human festivities. The guards had been lax, the fools. 'Soft, these pinkskins, so soft.' He had sneered inwardly. 'How did they even manage to fight us this long? How did they manage to win even one battle!'

The ships had opened fire before any alarm had been sounded, and the response had initially been nothing but panic in the harbour, the people there running everywhere with no order or purpose. Spineless, these humans.

Cannon shells exploded on the cannon towers and shipyards, the heat setting more than one wooded part afire. Even as the flames spread, he had ordered the barrage to be intensified. It had been then that some of the towers had begun striking back, with limited effectiveness.

"Look how they run! Like animals!" Hellscream laughed, and many of his soldiers jeered and shouted insults towards the harbour. He saw that the ship's captain and many of the crew, however, weren't laughing. They were carrying our orders, but also watching for something. The lack of cheer in the face of success annoyed the Warsong chieftain.

"What are you doing?" he growled.

"Chieftain?" The captain asked, his eyes firm but somewhat reluctant.

"I asked what you were doing! What are your people doing? We're crushing their measly little harbour with ease!"

"They've begun to fire back." The captain pointed to one ship, sinking nearby, its crew abandoning ship as quickly as it could. "That's just the beginning."

"Bah! Don't worry about it. The humans can't strike us that hard the way they are! We'll take it and hurt them as much as we can!" Hellscream looked on the city with some disdain. "Puny humans. They're defending like orclings! How could these inferior being even manage to hurt us?" With that, he let out a laugh.

"That's one of their biggest festivals. Its dating to the city's founding, I heard. That's probably why they…" The captain began, and Hellscream stopped laughing and gave the other orc a vile look.

"You even sound like a human! Don't remember that you're a Horde soldier?"

He actually didn't see the captain's fist, and before he knew it, Hellscream was on the floor, with the other orc, glaring down angrily.

"Don't ever take that tone with me on MY ship!" he spat. Hellscream's men began to advance, only to find themselves surrounded by grim sailors. It was clear that the captain's business was to stay for Hellscream and Hellscream only.

Anger took hold of the Warsong leader, as it always did in such moments. His vision swam into a red haze, and he felt his blood boil as he came to his feet, nursing a sore jaw.

But reason still came forward. It still told him that he was on a ship, outnumbered, against a crew whom he had just antagonized. That same, reasonable voice told him that, if he continued, he'd probably be thrown overboard through sheer numbers, and has no choice but to swim to the human-infested shores. Once there, he doubted even his skills would keep him alive indefinitely.

Hellscream had rarely been one to listen to reason if he could help it once the bloodlust had set in. But he hadn't become a good warrior only through battle prowess. He'd also known that, sometimes, fighting was really unnecessary.

Reason, for once, won the day, and the angry glare became a rueful one.

"Maybe you're still an orc warrior after all." He grunted. "Your words of caution aren't those of a warrior."

"They're from a ship captain." The orc said icily, fists still clenched, tension still present. "I fought here years ago, and I know how powerful this human city is. They're surprised, but they'll soon get organized. From that point, they can hold us off indefinitely."

"Indefinitely!" Hellscream scoffed. "Thirty warships?"

"Long enough for the twenty-ship home fleet returns. Then, we're caught between the two." The captain retorted, quickly. "And we can't survive both."

There was something else in the captain's eye, and Hellscream suddenly realized what it was: disgust. But disgust for what? For now wanting to leave? A normal orc commander would never even think of either fleeing or surrendering. Never! There was no honour in running or begging. Not to other orcs, and certainly not to these small, conceited PINKSINS!

"How did we even lose to them?"

"Because, chieftain, we didn't think we could."

A cannon shell dropped into the water near the ship, showering everyone with water, but neither Hellscream nor the captain budged. Finally, it was the former who decided that nothing would be gained by fighting. Still, it took an effort not to pay the captain back for his little tap.

"Alright, captain." He grunted at length. "What do you think we have to do?"

"It's only a matter of time before the home fleet returns. Now, we've lost three ships already, and six others are in no state to fight." The orc seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, before spitting to the ground. "Chieftain, we have to retreat."

"Retreat? Never! The Warsong Clan doesn't retreat."

"Then get off the ships, swim to short and attack the Tirassians. You'll hurt them, but they'll eventually kill you. Numbers."

Once more, rage threatened to overwhelm Hellscream, but the chieftain kept himself in control. He was on a ship, and there was nothing he could say about what the other orc was saying.

Retreat? Incredible! What were the orcs of this world thinking? Retreating had been a word unused by the horde, almost alien to their culture. Why was it being used so readily now? How had that so-called Alliance broken his people so completely that they not only retreated, but actually surrendered?

Did it matter? And, more importantly, did he actually have a choice?

In the end, he had something more important to do than harassing Kul Tiras' largest city. He had to go against the people of Alterac and retrieve the item that Ner'Zul needed to bring the Horde back to glory. Given the news he'd heard from the south, it was becoming more urgent with each passing day.

'How did we end up like this, frightened and spineless?' He thought savagely.

"Alright. Bring the ships around. We…" he choked, forced himself to continue. "We'll retreat to the north and see if they've been deceived. Then we begin to transport the army.

Flags were unfurled, orders were given, and soon the fleet seized fire and broke away from the wounded city. Many ships, he saw, were severely damaged, and the human cannons pursued them for many minutes.

Retreating. No matter why, Grom Hellscream vowed never to become used to it. No matter what, he'd stay the Horde warrior he was.

* * *

Late Autumn 606, Violet Citadel, Dalaran 

Rena Delado, one of the most powerful magi in Dalaran and the continent, did not want to meet with the equally powerful Kel'Thuzad.

It wasn't that he was powerful enough that she feared him, although she guessed that only Antonidas, Khadgar, and perhaps the elder elven archmage Krazus could defeat him in a spellcasting battle. Strength could be outfought in some way. It wasn't that the man had done anything to warrant any suspicion. In fact, he had done his very best to aid during the Second War, and his work on countering the Death Knights' necromantic powers had saved many lives.

Delado knew there was nothing deep about this. It was, in fact, the simplest of things: she didn't like the man's manner.

But he was highly knowledgeable, and could help her in making heads or tails of the information she'd gathered. And so, she went forth to find him.

It had been relatively easy. When not in his own mansion conducting experiments, or attending meetings of the Kirin Tor, Kel'Thuzad could be found in the Farenguard Arcane Library, the foremost bastion of arcane lore known, surpassing even the great elven arcane vaults.

Here, students of magic studied minor spellbooks in specially-constructed alcoves, while special rooms were dedicated to tutors and teachers giving what knowledge they had to young initiates. Delado, like most, had spent her formative years in places much like this one.

Of course, the Arcane Library possessed more advanced features, from which even the greatest archmage could find useful information. Runic, marble-made tables could shape magical research to aid the ones who so asked for them, and magic treatises and arcane knowledge was legion.

It was at one such runic table that she found the archmage. She looked around. The area around the table was magically silenced to prevent distractions; she didn't want anyone seeing her and Kel'Thuzad meeting. The knowledge, after all, that she didn't like the man was well-known.

No one was there. With only a slight mental effort, she entered the magical field around the table.

"Ah, beautiful company." The archmage said, having certainly felt her approach. He was busy writing arcane notes, books spread and open, covering the table, as he sat before on a slender chair magically made to accommodate to the one seated. "Not that I'm very fond of any company, especially in my research.

"No jests here, sir." She answered, controlling her inner dislike. "I'm not here to exchange pleasantries with you."

"You never were one for humour. This, I admit, suits me fine." He gestured to the empty chair on the other side of the table. "Very well, then. If not for pleasantries, why must Rena Delado, who doesn't like my ways very much, come to me for aid? For that IS why you are here, I assume?"

'Sly, that one.' She thought ruefully. Sly and dangerously cunning. She felt she had to watch herself with him.

"You're of the Kirin Tor." She mused, "So surely you know of the troubles we face in this city."

"Of course. The attack upon us was appalling." He agreed. Despite his words, he seemed more interested in his findings. It irritated Delado for some reason she couldn't define. Keeping her irritation in check, feeling the many days of hunting traitors weighed heavily upon her shoulders, she nonetheless ploughed on.

"We hunted some of those responsible for the attack. They were minor pawns, of course. The main conspirators covered their tracks well. In fact, they're probably among us."

"Very likely. And, I would say, its probable that they are very powerful in our magocracy. In fact." The bearded man grinned, "Perhaps I am one. Or perhaps you are. Who can tell?"

There was no denying that particular brand of logic. How could they, indeed, tell who was honest and who wasn't? The world of magic was a very secretive place to begin with, and all magi valued his or her independence. There was no structure to allow anyone to know a person's true intent.

"We'll have to trust that neither of us is making a mistake." she admitted ruefully, "However, this brings me to you. We found some information from those traitors. It appears that they're building a magical army. What we've seen might be only the beginning. And, unless I am very much mistaken, they're experimenting with advanced necromancy."

Perhaps it was just her imagination, but Delado had the impression that a spark of some sort alighted in Kel'Thuzad's eyes at the mention of necromancy. This, in essence, wasn't surprising given the archmage's great strides to understand and counter necromantic spells. Yet, necromancy had been forbidden for centuries, and she doubted that the rest of the Kirin Tor would like to see one of its members dabbling in forbidden magic so much.

Not that the archmage seemed to care what others thought of him.

"Advanced necromancy?" he asked with definite interest, "In what way? Necromantic spells are a risk to temper with; more than all but conjuration spells."

"Yes. I am not very knowledgeable in necromancy, but it seems that its power is derived from the magical representations and energies of life and death, draining life from the living enemies, but giving a semblance of life to corpses."

"A simplified explanation, but essentially correct." Was the dismissive answer. "But that's the basic theory. Why did you talk about advanced necromancy."

"We seized a laboratory under one traitorous mansion. There were several undead there. Most were shambling, unthinking monsters. But two of them," She sighed, dismissing her unease, her doubt that talking of this was the right thing to do. "Two of them still had some intelligence. They could understand. They were insane minds, but they still had minds."

Kel'Thuzad leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes assuming a faraway look. He muttered to himself fiercely, and it seemed that, with each passing moment, his excitement over the matter grew. Eventually, he fixed her with a stare.

"This is an arcane achievement, for good or ill." He stated, leaning forward. "Are these undead still contained?"

She did not like the feverish taint to his gaze, but the powerful woman had come too far to back out. "Yes. And that it why I came to you."

"Well done!" he exclaimed. "You were right to come to me. This is most interesting, and I wish to see these specimens at once."

Delado really didn't like Kel'Thuzad.

"These specimens, as you call them," she reminded him coolly, "Are actually some of our own people."

"Wizards, sorcerers?" He prodded.

She frowned. She saw where it was going. It wasn't surprising, either. Kel'Thuzad, after all, was of an old arcane family, like Delado herself was. And the old families were very strict about who were 'their' people. Non-spellcasters often weren't. Although Delado herself wasn't one who agreed with the practice, she immediately saw that it would be no use in trying to bring sympathy from the man towards the poor victims.

Instead, she chose another subject.

"Should we be concerned over this development?" she asked. Kel'Thuzad took a moment to reflect on that.

"If this is truly some kind of advanced necromancy," he mused, "It might be a very dire threat. We've been preserving the dead quite well with our methods. Anyone buried in the last ten years would be a good candidate for reanimation."

The tone was so calm and scholarly that the words and their portent didn't strike home at once. When they did, it was all that Delado could do not to slide off the table.

"Lord Kel'Thuzad," she gulped despite herself, swallowing hard, "If you're right, that'd imply."

"An army. An army of thousands. Ghouls, skeletons, zombies. Yes, as I said, a dire threat." He nodded, dispelling the magical images he had been studying.

Delado couldn't believe it. As if the Horde and the problems in the Alliance weren't enough, now the threat of undead invading the old arcane capital was clear. She briefly wondered if she couldn't just seal herself from the world and read books. She knew, however, that she couldn't do so. There was only one thing that she could do.

"Come. You have to see these things. You have to understand them." She told him. "Because we might one day need a defence."

"My dear," he said with the same excited glint. "Lead, and I will follow!"

* * *

Late Autumn 606, Zeth'Kur, Dreanor 

Aerth Swiftblade shifted in annoyance.

"Father, how long am I going to have to deal with this wound? It is becoming an inconvenience." He asked. He wasn't able to keep some frustration from creeping in at that.

"General, you know better than to ask that. Now, allow me to administer the ointment in peace, if you please." Was the tired reply of a cleric exhausted from work and far too many questions of the same kind.

Swiftblade kept his peace and let the priest apply the slimy concoction and new bandage over his old wound. Not a big one compared to the many he'd received in his life, the attempt on his life as he'd forced his son back to Sunshire had come nearer than most, simply because the blade had been treated with a rare poison which made the wound hard to treat. Consequently, the recovery had been slow.

Had this been peacetime, Swiftblade would have gone to his lands and family and waited for the wound to heal. It would have taken weeks even then, but in peacetime, he could have handled it.

But it wasn't peacetime. He was, as it seems he'd always been for decades, in the middle of a war. In charge of an army of eight thousand, part of an offensive to settle some of the Alliance's naval power in Dreanor. As a general, he couldn't afford the rest. The wound would have to heal slowly, with little aid.

As soon as he was bandaged, he put on his undergarments, and with help from an aide, proceeded to put on his armour, a steel plate mail set in with the ornate carvings of the Azerothian crown, his land of birth and the one holding his ultimate allegiance. Soon, he was ready, and left the makeshift tent.

His warhorse was there, with a squire holding it, in full barding, with a full contingent of knights waiting patiently. Easily, with the gait of one totally used to wearing armour, Swiftblade mounted and spurred his horse forward, quickly galloping to the battlefield.

The ranks were neat and orderly when he arrived. The knights and cavaliers, the footmen and archers, the support ballistae were all perfectly aligned, like chessboard pieces, and even on this strange world, there was no mistaking both the peace of the moment, the glory of the sight, and the horror to come. Soon, the marshy grounds would be battered and bloody.

The enemy hadn't moved, of course. Cornered to protect the stronghold, they were pressed against the wooden walls and seemed prepared for a charge. Among them, after all, were the wolfriders he'd seen in action and fought against during the First War. They weren't about to make things any easier.

"They haven't made any move?" He asked a familiar figure on the overlook as soon as he spotted it. Bram Poorglade turned to him and, recognized him, saluting in respect and recognition.

"None. They're waiting for us." He said. "It wouldn't help them to attack us, at any rate."

That was tactically a very realistic conclusion. The orcs they were facing were outnumbered eight thousands to three thousands. They wouldn't blindly attack a superior foe. What the orcs needed was time and some good tactics to succeed. Swiftblade had no intention of letting them have the first, so that they couldn't figure out the latter.

"Are the men ready?" he asked.

"Completely. They're saddened that Danath won't be taking part in this battle, though."

"He's needed at the main base site. He's arranging the link between the two settlements." Swiftblade explained. "Just as Alleria is preparing our defences there."

Bram probably believed that. Most of the soldiery probably did. Swiftblade knew that it was a lie. Danath and Alleria had been left behind because of their strong battle experience and their strength of command. They had been asked, in the end, to become Rellon Minvare's replacements if something went so wrong with the man that he could no longer defend the main Alliance stronghold.

And, Swiftblade had to admit, Minvare wasn't doing any better than he had when met at Khaz Modan. He was, if anything, far worse than before. His moods were less and less stable, and the steady commands he once was capable of giving had degenerated into outburst and half-hearted orders.

Swiftblade, who knew the probable reason for that behaviour, wondered if they hadn't underestimated the resentment the man must have felt and let fester for the Alliance. Underestimated or not, it meant that he wasn't trustworthy for this task, and Turalyon had assumed command.

Fortunately, scouts reports demonstrated that the installations – two shipyards and a foundry, as well as several refineries – weren't that well protected, something he could see even without the Longview.

Few towers, crumbling wooden walls, thousands of orcs with only minor equipment. Although the Horde's penchant for blood was well-known, considering that in didn't change the fact that the Horde facilities were wholly unprepared for the assault. That there was a small Horde fleet changed nothing – scouts reported that they were badly maintained, and no match even for the small fleet that they had expanded their arcane might to get through the portal and into the water.

Not a hard battle. But a crucial one. Swiftblade patiently waited.

Even as the light of Dreanor's strange sun reached its zenith, a horn was sounded from Turalyon's position, giving the signal that all had waited for.

He raised his hand, and all waited for his command. Even now, after having commanded men for twenty years, the thought of this absolute faith from others was abhorrent. What made him so good that others would listen to him? After his son, how could he have the right? It bothered the common-born knight.

Yet, bothered or not, he had accepted it long ago. After a moment, he swept his hand forward. At once, the horns sounded, and the attack began.

The Horde quickly sent their wolfriders to intercept the knights, while their grunts stayed behind quickly-erected defences. The footmen, for their part, began a slow charge towards the orcs, while to archers followed at a good distance.

"Fire the ballistae. At the walls. They must have the impression that they will not be capable of fleeing." He said, and he looked to see that the Alliance and Horde infantry had met, and the fighting was turning especially violent in the area. The world was turning red, as he'd known that it would.

The battle between the knights and the riders was proving inconclusive for the moment, as the nimbler riders fought the more powerfully armoured humans. Still, there were no more than two hundred, while Swiftblade had command over three times that number.

"It never ends, does it?" he asked no one in particular.

"Milord?" Bram asked.

"Never you mind that, commander." He saw the footmen disengaging, while the archers came into position. "Now. Let the arrows fly! Force the enemy to meet us head on!"

The fifteen hundred archers – humans and elves – fired upon the bulk of the Horde's infantry, even as the sole Horde tower on his side crumbled, having done only negligible damage. The arrows struck like a deadly, rain, and through his longview, he saw some orcs fall. Many were wounded. What was most important, however – what was crucial to bring this to a quick, successful close – was that the orcs became agitated.

They were angry, furious. They were overcome by their bloodlust.

Excellent.

The orcs began to charge, even as he ordered his archers to fire a second volley and his footmen turned around and charged again. Not expecting this, the orcs soon found themselves outnumbered and facing an enemy having suffered less damage then they did. The riders, for their part, were barely holding their own against the knights. It was only a matter of time before it all became a rout.

And the ballistae continued to ravage the wall.

"They didn't make any preparations." Bram said. "They've been like this all along this war. I've never seen them like this."

"I did, my friend." Swiftblade said. "In the early parts of the First War, they were like this. They were too arrogant, and they thought us too inferior. It cost them many fights at the beginning, before they adjusted."

"So we need to strike hard, then."

"As hard as possible." Swiftblade stated, "I made that as clear as I could. Because if they adjust, here, in their home ground, we won't be able to do anything but retreat."

And still the battle went on, while his wound still strained Swiftblade's back.

* * *

Late Autumn 606, Stormwind, Azeroth 

Sedren Starsheen, the middle-aged patriarch of House Starsheen, lay dead, his throat neatly slit, in the middle of the wide, wooden table at which he had sat many times before. It was clear to anyone who saw this and who had seen the clues left behind that this had been done as a direct affront to the House of Nobles and to the King of Azeroth. It was a threat of what could become a reality for all nobles.

For Eira Fregar Swiftblade, it had been just one more thing to give her a severe headache.

Since her husband's duties kept him on another world fighting yet another war – when, by the Light, would he finally be left alone? When would Aerth finally be able to stay with her? – she had assumed the duties befitting her position as the Swiftblade Matriarch. She didn't particularly mind it. Ever since the House had been reformed, Aerth had often preferred to send her to these meetings.

It had been a wise decision, she agreed. As great as her husband was on the battlefield of swords, he was less than great on the one of words. Eira, however, had been bred for it ever since she could talk, and found it much to her liking. It also redirected her constant worry about her mischievous son, who was presently under strict orders not to leave the Swiftblade castle until she feels he has learned some common sense.

Thus, she had been walking towards one more meeting, having walked from the small mansion that her family kept up to the large stone building, and there she had met Katrana Prestor, who hailed her with her usual calm, perfect politeness.

"Ah, Lady Swiftblade. Well met." She had said as they walked to the main meeting room. "I hope that you are well."

"Quite well, Lady Prestor." She had replied smoothly, nodding to the pages and servants who went to and fro in the building's many chambers. "I see you came early as well."

"There is nothing more informative than being early at a meeting of the peerage. You see them enter, you have time to read their faces." She answered. "Thus, it gives one an edge."

Eira personally didn't like Katrana. Aerth had once told her that he felt something odd every time the noblewoman had been in the same room with her. Something he had felt only on the battlefield. Although she couldn't relate with such feelings, Eira had to admit that there was something… unsettling… about the woman's demeanour. She was, however, an excellent diplomat.

She had been talking about the latest trade problems with Katrana – trade with Kul Tiras was down, and it was being felt in the western ports – when they arrived in the room to find the dead body.

Eira had seen death. She had seen people – family – fall to the bloody axes and spears of the orcs. She had seen the cold of death on many faces, and had seen its horrors intimately. Like so many Azerothians, death wasn't something which frightened her outright.

But the corpse being here, a slain body in the middle of the meeting room with its high windows, its magnificent columns and pristine appearance, was unusual and frightening enough to make her gasp and take a step back before she could control herself.

Whatever impulse which had griped Eira, it seemed that the Lady Prestor didn't even have human blood in her veins. She barely hesitated at the door, passing the bewildered, horrified young servant who had opened it and walking to the corpse. The sight of the delicate woman in her rich finery looking at a dead man critically, was almost ridiculous. Given the circumstances, it was chilling.

'What is that woman, that she can be so callous, so uncaring?' Eira thought as she brought herself under control. She gave the still-paralyzed servant a look. "Summon the guard. Tell them Lord Starsheen is dead." She said. After a moment, the servant disappeared.

They would be back soon, she knew. If there was something to be learned, Katrana and herself would have to do it fast. It was then that it struck her.

"The guards…" she muttered.

"Ah, so you noticed that as well." The Lady Prestor said, her brown eyes searching. "Yes, they weren't there. Very interesting. It explains why no one would have heard anything."

"Whoever did that could not have killed the guards." Eira said, refusing to look at the corpse – there were limits to stoicism. "Too much noise to it. But if the guards were accomplices, however."

"Not impossible at all, dear Lady Swiftblade. Your husband would be proud, I suppose." Katrana said, bending as if something had caught her eye.

Eira was about to say that Aerth would have had an entire division of armed troops in the building if he'd discovered the deed, and would have all but locked her up in her room in Sunshire – the man could be sweet and caring, but he often took it too far, as men often did. She didn't get a chance to say anything, however, before Katrana gave a sharp, satisfied hiss.

"Have you found a clue?" she asked. She saw Katrana looking smugly at a piece of cloth. As an answer, the other noblewoman flung the piece down at Eira's feet. She picked it up. Examining it, she understood in mere moments.

Of course. It fit.

"The Brotherhood." She growled even as she turned the red piece of cloth in her hands. "Van Cleef's way of snubbing us."

"Or his pathetic attempt at frightening us." Katrana scoffed. "Lord Starsheen is a warning to us all.

Eira grunted despite how unladylike it was.

The Defias Brotherhood. Born out of the mistaken decision not to pay the artisans who rebuilt Stormwind, the group had gone from disgruntled highwaymen to a dangerous organization in the mere three years since Van Cleef, an architect and former thief of great prowess, had vowed revenge on the capital and its nobles. It was well like the man to do such a thing to make a point. He had the resources and the inside contacts, as well as intimate knowledde of the city itself.

Her husband had voted against the decision not to pay the builders and had taken several risks to his reputation in doing so. Although Eira respected him for his honest dealings, she however knew that a noble had to follow the House's decision. For a person like Van Cleef to kill one of the nobility, it hired the woman.

"Beasts. All of them are beasts." She said as she looked at the slain noble. Lord Starsheen had been a fool at times, but he hadn't deserved something like this! "The Defias should be taught a lesson."

Katrana looked at Eira at that, as if gauging her about something. It lasted but a moment, and yet it chilled the woman right through her indignation, and she shivered. Lady Prestor then smiled benevolently.

"They will be, one day." Was what she told Eira firmly. "But for now, we have to take care of our peer here. It would look shameful to leave the table where the House of Nobles debates sullied by spilled blood."

The guards arrived then, led by a knight wearing the sigil of the Silver Hand. The moustached man's eyes narrowed at the sight, and he quickly came to stand beside the two nobles, making a gesture of benediction on the corpse.

"The Light Receive Thee, And Forgive Thee. Let It embrace Your Soul Forever." He intoned, before gazing at the two women. "This is a terrible day when needless death is seen like this. I trust that you ladies are unharmed?"

"Yes, good paladin." Katrana said, and Eira was surprised to see some tension and fear in her voice. She was good at manipulating, that one. "We are. Such cannot be said of the good Lord Starsheen. We found this on his body." She said, showing the red cloth. The paladin seemed to take it as a personal affront.

"These scoundrels have gone too far this time! I will make certain that we find those responsible and bring them before the King's lawmasters for judgement!" He said, with the devotion and zeal all paladins seemed to possess in ample amounts.

Eira had been born to her position. She had been trained for it, through tutors and endless practice, many balls and social receptions. She had known wealth all of her life, and knew the intricacies of politics.

Her husband, for his part, had been born in modest, though not poor, means, and been raised in an environment where politics were vague and largely unaffecting affairs. His years of fighting and leading armies made him a straightforward man who had no time for intricacies at all.

And yet, seeing Katrana, seeing the dead body and the evidence, she really wished she could ask his advice. For, in this, something told her that a straightforward person might get to the bottom of the tragedy faster. Eira, however, determined to find out the truth, and determined to use all of her knowledge and training for it.

The time had come for her to wage her own war.

* * *

Late Autumn 606, Redridge Mountains, Wildlands 

Young Kelak was the one who spotted the humans. Although trained by the orcs to be a warrior and hunter, he excelled in the latter far more than the former, and was quick of wit and feet. He had found them while they had been relaxing from climbing part of the rock face, which probably accounted why no one saw him.

Thornfeet had been interested in the discovery. "Why are they here? This isn't grounds that humans travel…"

"They don't." Borkom agreed. "We're far from the forests and plains that the Azerothians occupy."

"But don't they have some settlements elsewhere?" The shaman asked.

"The humans claim the lands from the Border Peaks with Khaz Modan, to the Red Hills leading to the southern jungles, from the Great Sea to the Redridge Mountains. But they actually have few points in Redridge." Borkom frowned, "Aside from Lakeshire, a few collections of farms and some mines, they have little claims here. And we're nowhere near any of the things I mentioned."

"Then they must be here for a precise reason. Let's find out what it is."

And so, Thornfeet, Borkom and three of the best hunters of the group sought the humans out. To aid in the endeavour, he had called upon the spiritual energies of the area and made it that no sound could be heard from him or anyone near him. Despite that, they had to be very careful.

They saw the humans quickly. There were seven of them, a rather large group. They were well equipped for mountain climbing, although they seemed to have little aside from short swords and daggers, as well as three short bows, to call as weapons. None of them had the feel of a spellcaster. What was interesting was the red scarf all of these humans wore on their face or around the neck.

"They seem to belong to a group." Thornfeet said from his observation point. "Do you know them?" He asked the aging leader of the camp. Borkom was frowning in slight distaste as he looked down at the humans. At length, he nodded.

"I've heard of these people. They're called the Defias Brotherhood. Thieves and murderers, and that's the positive words." His frown deepened to a scowl. "They're trouble in the west, but they never come out here. They don't have a reason to."

"And why is that?"

"Because they want revenge against Azeroth in general and Stormwind in particular. What's the point in being here? The humans don't even have plans to expand here."

Thornfeet had to grin at that. The one named Borkom was knowledgeable indeed. He kept in touch with things. No wonder his groups had survived so well, and no wonder none of the younger orcs ever challenged him.

"Well, they're here for a reason. I say we find out what it is." The shaman mused. "I can make it so that we can hear what they're saying. Without any danger to ourselves." He waited for the leader to nod, and then withdrew within himself, contacting the spirits and channelling the energies.

One moment, the humans were so far that no one could have heard the words. The next, the wind seemed to carry what they said as clearly as if they talked next to the orcs. Only Thornfeet and Borkom listened, however, as only they knew the human speech.

"- have to bring them here." One of them said. From the tone, it was the one with authority. The leader, no doubt.

"I don't understand this. Why do we have to kidnap some nobles? We already killed Lord Starsheen, isn't that enough?" Another whined.

"It's never enough!" The leader growled, "All that hurts Stormwind is good, in my opinion! And we have our orders from Van Cleef! Are you saying you want to disobey him?"

There was a pause which Thornfeet could only see as being fearful. Obviously, crossing this 'Van Cleef' wasn't something these people wanted. The shaman looked to the orc leader to find him nodding grimly. Yes, Borkom knew that name, and yes, it was a dangerous name.

"Lady Prestor, Lord Fordragon, Lady Swiftblade," one muttered, and Thornfeet noticed Borkom moving a bit at that. "The three most powerful nobles in the kingdom, aside from the King himself. If we killed them, it'd be…"

"That's not our orders. Our orders are to kidnap them, and bring them here. That's why the mages in Dalaran paid us so much. Van Cleef doesn't want a lucrative thing like this to go to waste." The human leader explained. Not for the first time, from the frustration edging his tone.

"What do the Light-blasted wizards want with them?"

"We have no idea. It's none of our concern. We take them, we bring them here, we give them to whoever comes, and we get the gold and promised magical items. That's good enough for Van Cleef, and that means its good enough for ALL of us."

The conversation waned into something uninteresting afterwards, and Thornfeet let the spiritual energies dissipate. He then looked at Borkom again, seriously.

"You reacted to these names. You've heard them before?" he asked gently.

"I heard one of them. Swiftblade. You may have heard that, too."

Now that the other orc mentioned it, he HAD heard that name mentioned. Often in fear mingled with grudging respect. General Swiftblade, the one who had fought Warlord Grimfrost to a standstill at Ironforge. The human hero – and orcish doombringer – of many battles. Yes, there was a human named Swiftblade whom the orcs recognized as a powerful figure.

"But that Swiftblade was undoubtedly a male. All I heard about him point to that much." He pointed out, then squinted a bit. "His mate, maybe?"

Borkom shrugged. "I don't know if he mated or not. Given all he did, it'd be surprising if he wasn't. If he were an orc, he long would have been."

"A truth. But we don't know. Perhaps she is his mate. Or she may be unrelated." He paused, "The question is, does that really matter?"

"It doesn't. You know why." Borkom answered.

The shaman didn't have to wonder. The campsite had been the latest of hiding places, and the safest thus far. The food sources and safety made the orcs there think that they might just be able to stop their nomadic ways without joining Grimfrost's colony or the Hidden Valley. But, in order to maintain his people's safety, Borkom had become strict when it came to dangerous outsider: those who discovered them had to be eliminated.

Thornfeet understood. He had become just as protective of his Hidden Valley, the Dust Crags and the smattering of hidden orc hamlets scattered around the southern lands. He also knew that he would also protect the Hidden Valley fiercely.

"I understand. But remember, too much killing will simply be that much blood on your hands. And it may not save the humans who were captured."

"Humans." The orc sighed, "No, I can't say they don't matter. Kelak is human, and he matters. Alright, Patriarch, what do we do about this Defias Brotherhood?"

There was no trouble as far as that was concerned. The solution was easy to deduce.

"You hate these Defias." He mused.

Borkom rubbed his chin. "Hate? Maybe not. But I don't like them. They make things dangerous for all of us."

"Then there's a way to get the humans to leave you alone and still be able to hurt this…brotherhood." Thornfeet mused, "Save the people they'll kidnap. Powerful nobles, leaders, all three of them. And that'll mean that they'll owe you a favour."

Borkom looked at Thornfeet in befuddled surprise for a long moment. He though that the other orc was either going to get into an angry burst or laugh. The other two orcs, who had only followed parts of the conversation, did seem irritated. But any outburst would be showing themselves to the humans.

Then, Borkom showed just why he had been leader so long. He didn't get angry. He didn't laugh. His surprise became solemnity.

"You, Patriarch, have a plan, don't you?" He asked at length, and he motioned to the other hunters to calm down.

Thornfeet shrugged. If only Borkom knew. Planning ahead was what had begun Shamanism's revival. He knew quite a bit about it.

* * *

**State of the Kingdom of Azeroth in 606**

During the five devastating years of the First War, the formerly-powerful Azeroth was torn apart by the savage strength and sheer numbers of the Horde. A large fraction of the populace escaped to Lordearon, a few bands remained as either slaves or freedom fighters. Most, however, were killed.

The Second War allowed the people of Azeroth to return to their homeland, followed by some people of other nations, as well as members of Quel'Thalas and Khaz Modan who were intrigued by the idea of rebuilding the nation. As such, the past six years have been both productive and tumultuous.

Many of the cities and villages of the Kingdom are being rebuilt, with farmlands generally staying close to patrolled areas. Druidic and divine magic, as well as quite a bit of arcane help, allowed Elwynn Forest to quickly recover. Stormwind is once again a strong bastion, and cities such as Goldshire, Sunshire are beginning to advance human stability in other areas. The realm has also staked claims to parts of the Redridge Mountains again, with a town named Lakeshire quickly growing there.

But all is not well in Azeroth. Although Northern Elwynn is prospering again, the once-rich lands of Westfall have had problems with the Defias Brotherhood, an organization whose goal is to destroy Stormwind and its nobility. The problems are increasing, and it might be only a matter of time before the region becomes desolate again. Already, many farmsteads and villages are once again empty, and even Moonbrook is in danger.

The same can be said of Southern Elwynn. Although the problems are not as glaring as those of Westfall, a gloom is descending upon the woods, and people have begun disappearing. This has been especially true in Darkshire, the largest town in the area.

Morover, the orcs, although weak and diminished, still raid the Kingdom's villages from hidden bases, adding to the troubles. Despite all of this, Azeroth is once again re-establishing itself as a strong power within the Alliance. No longer pitied and relying on aid, it now again stands equal with the other nations.

_PS: Sorry it took so long for this one. Been having connection problems these days. --_


	10. Chapter Nine: Doubts and Loyalties

**Chapter Nine: Doubts and Loyalties**

_Late Autumn 606, Zeth'Kur, Dreanor_

The question was unexpected.

"Does he know, sir?"

Bram Poorglade had been a soldier a long time. He had gone from a frightened farmboy with no training to a hardened veteran through his own valour, and risen to the rank of commander in the Alliance Army. Through this rise, he had learned to read more than simple questions in his men.

As such, he felt it was more than a simple question that one of his captains, an armoured knight of fine manners whose bearing was sullied only by the bandages wrapped around his head and left arm – relics of the Alliance's taking of the orcish port. The place was now in their hands, and he was certain that the commanders would quickly transform the place into a naval bastion.

He was walking with three of his five captains through the muddy and damaged streets of the stronghold, when that question came. He could only blink at the one who had uttered it.

"I don't see what you mean…" he admitted, "'Who' doesn't know 'what'?"

As an answer, the wounded captain pointed, and there Poorglade saw Rellon Minvare walking.

He had known Minvare through his own generals. Swiftblade had trusted the man implicitly during the Second War, and Goldenhorn... Poorglade shook his head to chase the dark thoughts away. What he knew was that the general had been one of the best, and that all in the great Dragon Army of the Second War had trusted this calm leader.

But Minvare no longer had the confident, calm gait which had always seemed to soothe the spirits when battle loomed. His was now a gait of despair and anger, a stride of resentment and frustrations. Poorglade was, once again, appalled at the change the once-great man had suffered.

He hated the sight, and looked away.

"I see him." He muttered, "Still, what do you mean by that?"

"I cannot help but wonder… if General Minvare knows that his soldiers depend on him for guidance. That all he does he scrutinized and emulated, even if the soldiers themselves don't see it as such."

Poorglade shook his head at the emotional drivel. "You exaggerated, my friend."

"I am sorry, commander, but I daresay I am not." The captain answered. "You only have to compare our army and his to see the differences.

He was about to retort that there were no great differences between the two forces, but facts prevented the former farmer from voicing his thoughts. In fact, there were differences between the two generals, and the armies seemed to somehow feel those differences.

Rellon Minvare and Aerth Swiftblade's armies had always been well-managed and efficient in the Second War, as the two men worked tightly with their staff and kept morale up. Swiftblade had aged, his brown hair turned to grey, his gait a bit slower than before. But there was still confidence and strength in the way the 'Invincible General' went about, an air of command and strength. Not so with Minvare.

And so, Swiftblade's army had good services and facilities, and the men were orderly and clean. Morale was high, for following Swiftblade had been proven as a good way to stay alive. Minvare's army, however, had had more deserters and more brawls than all of the other forces combined. Morale was low, and coordination was poor in both camp and battlefield.

"I see what you mean, captain, I do." He admitted reluctantly as the stricken leader stalked away, soldiers letting him pass more out of fear than out of the respect they would have shown Turalyon, Swiftblade or Eltrass. "And I can't say I know. If this was the Second War, I'd say yes without hesitation. But now…"

"They say that even our general's support is slipping." Another captain noted, "And without Swiftblade's reputation and influence to guard his back, Turalyon won't be waiting long in replacing him."

Poorglade didn't really like where the conversation was going. He personally didn't like politics. More than anything else, it seemed to drag the Alliance down in petty squabbles and rising tensions. He wouldn't be surprised if the entire Alliance broke apart after the Horde would be finally defeated. For all of the idealism, the human nations and their allies were together only to stand on equal ground with the Horde.

Still, there was enough truth to the captain's assertion. Swiftblade had been the de factor second in command of the Alliance Forces in Dreanor, and had had a strong reputation for over a decade before then. That reputation had weight, and it had allowed, if rumours were true, to protect Minavare despite the man's increasing shortcomings.

The question was, would Swiftblade truly withdraw his backing? Wouldn't it simply make things more chaotic – something the Alliance truly did not need?

"We'll just hope that General Swiftblade makes the right decision." He decided. "I, for one, will stand by it whatever it may be."

"Aye, he's earned that over the years." One of the captains, a doughty dwarf, rumbled. "Hasn't lead us badly at all, that man, so let's stand by him."

"I never said that I would not stand by the Lord-General's decision." The captain who had expressed the political possibilities defended. "He has earned my loyalty as much as he has earned yours! Furthermore…"

"Just teasing ya. Peace." The dwarf rumbled with a chuckle.

Poorglade sighed ruefully, but smiled nonetheless. Despite the pressure they were enduring, the men were in high spirits, ready to fight at any opportunity – if their leader told them to. Maybe that was Swiftblade's power, or Turalyon's, or Eltrass'. They had the loyalty, and Minavare no longer did.

"Well, I suppose I have to report to him now. Our General does like to be kept in the know." He said. "Now, you people go off and have a drink on my behalf."

The drinks would mostly be water; Ale and wine and other such beverages were scarce, as the commanders were far more concerns about bringing a steady supply of food to the army from their home. Still, there would be companionship, and Poorglade left his subordinates rather reluctantly.

It was a long walk to the general's tent, and then he had to pass inspection by the knights stationed as the man's protection. Ever since the last, nearly successful assassination attempt on Swiftblade had been made, the knights had taken it upon themselves to ensure their leader's safety, something they did with annoying zeal.

It was Swiftblade himself who broke the lengthy blockage, by poking his head out and recognizing him. In short order, Poorglade found himself inside the tent, with its utilitarian arrangement. The only item of luxury was the well-made clock near the general's bunk.

"My father made that clock." The general said, "It was the only thing I managed to salvage relatively intact from my parent's destroyed home. I suppose it's largely a sentimental drivel, like my beloved wife likes to point out."

Poorglade nodded. He understood the feeling perfectly. He, too, had had to scrounge through his family's farm, and had kept the small dagger with which his father was fond of whittling wood. He had kept it ever since. The nostalgic moment passed, however, and the grey-haired general became all business, urging the commander to sit even as he did.

"This back is better, but not quite alright yet. The healing is taking far too long." He mused, sighing, "Never mind that. Is everything secure on your end?"

"Yes, general, our tents are built, and our provisions secured. We can last for four months if a siege comes to us."

"Let us hope it never comes to that. We are at a certain disadvantage here. The orcs know the terrain and are more numerous than we are by far." The general mused.

Poorglade didn't really agree with the statement. To him, the Horde was already broken, and it was time for the Alliance to truly begin picking the remaining pieces apart. Yet he didn't say anything. He knew that Swiftblade would see such thoughts with a very dim view. And Poorglade didn't want to see the general disappointed in his work.

"We are in a very dangerous place, my friend." Swiftblade mused, "And it is our duty to see that the men return home. I will do everything I can to see that happen. I will see as many as I can return home."

"I understand, milord." Poorglade nodded. 'He's right. Do you know how much we look up to you? Do you, Aerth Swiftblade?'

Pushing these thoughts aside, however, Bram Poorglade turned his mind to the report he was to give to his leader. A soldier, after all, wasn't a soldier to dally on whimsical thoughts.

Least of all in the Horde's own lands.

* * *

_Late Autumn 606, Hidden Valley, Stromgarde_

The Hidden Valley had changed much over the years. It had begun as a simple place, where Gelmar Thornfeet and some disciples had found respite from the raging war between the Horde and the Alliance, and had come to study their knowledge of shamanism.

Shamanism was still an important part of the Hidden Valley many years later. The Great Spirit Lodge was the largest building in the settlement, and housed many shamans, apprentices and masters. It had even outgrown its founder, although Thornfeet was unarguably still the final authority.

The second largest building was Thornfeet's personal success, his secret joy. Within stood a very sizeable library of many subjects, from history to philosophy. Most of the books were human or elven ones – books found through many years of secret research and bloodless raids, an accumulated font of knowledge. Thornfeet had felt that something was destined to happen one day, and that sources of knowledge would become precious indeed.

The most cherished parts, of course, were the volumes written by orcs: account of battles, of personal thoughts, of communion with the spirits. They had started as tentative and small, but were quickly growing.

But the Hidden Valley did not begin and end at these two buildings. Hundreds of orcs called the settlement home, and houses, smithies, granaries and taverns were present. Outside, the resources the Valley gave were enough to satisfy the population's needs for three decades yet, and the orclings born since then had never actually known war except in tales.

It was a peaceful oasis.

As his travel through the shadows between trees ended and he came to stand next the great tree near which he had taught the first orc shamans, Thornfeet wondered how long such an oasis could last in the increasingly chaotic world the so-called Second War had left behind.

The aged orc hoped he would be able to slip to his own home near the Lodge undetected. He had no such luck. Someone spotted and recognized him, and within minutes dozens of orcs and orclings were buzzing around him in relief and excitement.

"Patriarch! We missed you!"

"You were gone a long time!"

"Where were you?"

"What happened?"

Thornfeet was a bit annoyed by the attention, but realized as the orcs spoke that time had indeed flown by. He had spent so long near that intriguing band of survivors, had participated in their plans so long, that he had almost forgotten his own people. He felt a certain shame for that, and knew that he might yet have to leave very soon. Because of that, he decided to have the people take their time, and tried to answer what questions he could.

It wasn't long before the other shamans sought him out, Drek'Tar leading them. The former orc grunt turned philosopher quickly shooed the people away.

"He's barely home, and you already want to stifle him!" he grumbled, "Now, leave the Patriarch some space so he can breathe, thank you very much!"

From someone else, it might have been a stern order. But Drek'Tar was too well-beloved by the community to even begin to sound stern. After some heartfelt words were exchanged, the people began to go back to their work.

"You always had a way with people, my friend." Thornfeet mused.

"A sad shadow of yours, teacher, but I manage." Drek'Tar said with a grin. The bloodlust that their race was cursed with seemed nonexistent at that moment. Hidden Valley, it seemed, was successfully keeping such things contained.

He looked around. Looked at the mills and houses. They seem a bit more refined than before, the main streets made up of cobbles instead of the usual mud roads. Here and there, orclings could be seen playing, being berated, or doing mischief. The feeling that he was home, truly home, overwhelmed Thornfeet.

'How could I even…forget that feeling, even just a bit?' he wondered to himself.

The orc in him was telling him that such a feeling was that of a weakling. But, in the orcish sense of the word, he had started out as a weakling, and found strength outside of the Horde. He ignored the curse in his blood, and found comfort in the spiritual strength of the place.

He then sighed. "I'm going to have to ask for some strange things." He told Drek'Tar as they walked with the other shamans back to the Lodge, acknowledging the people around them with nods and waves.

Drek'Tar didn't question, and didn't press. "It has to do with what you were doing, Patriarch?" he mused.

"That's right, my friend. I saw something remarkable there. No, that's not right. I saw something remarkable, but also someone."

He proceeded to tell them of the orc band he had met. Of how they were surviving, and how an honourable system was being developed. The reign of blood and hate was beginning to ebb away from many, it seemed.

"There may come a time when this curse the demon inflicted us with will just vanish." He said. It was then that he told them of the human male, of the way the young human was emulating the orcs, and saw that race as his family, his home. He grinned at some of the shamans's astonishment and disbelief. "Why do you all look like this? The spirits do not see any difference between human and orc. That is the first thing I taught you."

He realized the slightly chiding tone he was taking, but couldn't help but shake his head. Habits truly died hard. If they died at all.

"But, there's something else that I want to do. I need someone for a special mission I have in mind." He mused.

"A mission related to that band?"

"Partly. It will help them, but it might also open some minds among the humans of Azeroth." He replied.

That sobered some people, and he was glad that they had entered the elder shaman's meditation sanctum when he talked of it. Azeroth and the Horde had the most enmity, built over two devastating wars and far too many atrocities. The two civilizations attacked each other on sight, even though there were stories of mercy on both sides.

"Azeroth? The realm led by Wrynn?" Drek'Tar muttered. "If it was Lordaeron, maybe. Terenas seems more peaceful. But Wrynn? He fought in both wars, and his people have more reasons to hate us than even Stromgarde or Quel'Thalas."

"But Thoras Trollbane wouldn't listen to anything we said. The elves wouldn't even try to listen at all." Thornfeet pointed out. "Wrynn, however, might."

"You think he'd believe that we're not the monsters we seem to be to them?" Drek'Tar mused, and he wasn't surprised to find a lot of doubt in his former apprentice's voice. The years of war had bred little but mistrust and hatred. Even those who understood that spirits were no different in the orcs than in the humans couldn't really put those feelings aside.

Yes, it would take that leader before the orcs truly began to heal. It was the hope which the vision brought that sometimes made Thornfeet struggle on with his works. He intended to do the best he could with his own powers, however.

"I don't blame anyone's reasons for hating, my friend." He said. "We did things to the humans, and the humans did things to us, which will take years and years to heal. But we have to start somewhere, don't we?"

It didn't make them very happy to hear that. Their instincts were telling them all that this was wrong. They wanted to tell him that they weren't going to follow that advice, that he would have to let that dream of seeing mankind and orckind come to terms with hatred. They really wished they could tell him.

But they didn't. He knew them all, he had taught them all, and he knew that they wouldn't go against his ideals. They wouldn't go against peace if they could do otherwise. Because of that, he felt very proud of them all.

"I hope, I pray that you know what you're doing, Patriarch." Drek'Tar mused, "I respect you. I always will. But your good soul sometimes gets blinded by your idealism."

"Then what better way to keep that from happening than to have you, my most trusted friend, with me?" Thornfeet mused with a grin. Drek'Tar snorted.

"Just tell me what your plan is, Patriarch. Flattery might have to follow then."

"It might. My friend, how about we stop humans from kidnapping other humans, all for our own dreams of peace?" Thornfeet mused.

With that, he began to tell them his plan.

* * *

_Late Autumn 606, Violet Citadel, Dalaran_

"I have wondered about this for some time." Kel'Thuzad told Rena Delado in a thoughtful voice. It sounded for all the world like he was comfortable installed in a chair by the fire, idly telling someone of a research he had just done. It did NOT sound like someone inspecting a corpse.

It had once been a human. A human farmer, most likely – it made sense, as the estate's surrounding lands had had a rash of disappearances long before the Kirin Tor had ever investigated. But its humanity had been gone, when the zombie had been found. It had wounded two members of the search team before being magically subdued.

Kel'Thuzad had been far too happy to see the corpse and analyze it, in Delado's opinion. Her distaste, she knew, partly came from her upbringing and training: necromancy and the arts of demonic pacts had been forbidden in Dalaran and most of the magical community for centuries. Her dislike also came from experience, when she had been on the battlefield, seeing dead soldiers shambling toward the living.

But the possible threat that this single corpse made far outweighed any personal displeasure.

"Is there a possibility that the people at the estate…?" she asked hesitantly, but her own doubts were heavy. Kel'Thuzad seemed suddenly startled at the suggestion.

"Light, no! Never in a million years, if I may be dramatic." He said, and once again seemed on the verge of a lecture. Her glare did dampen the man a little, but it did not extinguish the talk itself. "If I'm not mistaken, and I doubt I am, it took someone of great power to do this. One of the highmages could have done it. Myself, you, Antonidas, Khadgar, a few others… not many."

She didn't like what the other wizard was saying. "You realize that you're accusing some of the oldest and most powerful members of the Order of engaging in necromantic research." She said.

"I know exactly what I'm saying. I know it too well. But it's either that, or it means that someone else has gone unnoticed and done so. In that case…"

"They had help."

"As always, Rena Delado, your mind is as quick as a hawk can be." Delado decided to leave the note of sarcasm she detected for later. It wasn't time to antagonize.

"Alright, Kel'Thuzad. You know about necromancy. You're the best informed on it, something the Kirin Tor doesn't like. But, in this case, I find that useful. So, what am I looking at?" She indicated the corpse.

"To put it as simply as I can, the people who created this zombie managed to use runes. Using those runes, they managed to capture a part of the original person's essence, and trapped it within the normal process that I've studied." Kel'Thuzad rubbed his hands slightly, pointing to small diagrams carved into the corpse's shell. "This made it a more intelligent, more agile type of undead."

She frowned. This investigation was beginning to turn in directions she didn't like. And there was something about what the other mage had said. Something about the capturing of the essence. Something familiar…

"Is there more you can glean from the corpse?" She ventured. He sighed and shook his head. She swallowed her dislike as hard as she could as she muttered words of magic, carefully sidestepping the wards only she knew how to deactivate and teleporting both of them to her private sanctum. Her apprentice being gone for several days on business she had sent her on, they could talk without fear of being listened to.

'Or that's what I'd like to believe.' She thought ruefully. 'But I was attacked in my own domain, something I didn't think could happen.' She found that Kel'Thuzad was examining some of her writings. "I'd be very glad if you didn't look at that."

He hmmed. "A spell mixing fire and lightning to maximum effect. Intriguing." He then shrugged. "But such spells aren't exactly my forte. I'd be interested in seeing the finished product."

"One day. We have more to talk about." She mused, and summoned chairs for them both. "Sit. I've been up and about too long."

Despite her calm appearance, Delado's thoughts raced. The Kirin Tor had ruled the city and the entire nation of Dalaran for two millennia. They had never been challenged in their rule. They were the heart of the magic-endowed people of the world, removed from normal scrutiny. It would be hard, if not impossible, to investigate its members.

And if they did find something? If they found evidence against one or more of them? How would they bring it to the Light and show the truth? The people of the Kirin Tor had vast resources. Antonidas, a member himself, might be able to save himself. Perhaps Kel'Thuzad. Delado wasn't all that certain that she could.

"Investigating the Kirin Tor…" she muttered, "Khadgar was right. The root of all this is very deep. Just looking at how few mages we sent is enough to make me see that. Light-"

It was then that it hit her. Kel'Thuzad, sitting at last, noticed her shocked expression. After a moment, he nodded thoughtfully, scratching his beard. He seemed neither upset nor displeased by the notion she had come to.

"You've seen it, haven't you?" he asked with a wry edge. "You get what I was trying to say now, when I was explaining that spell."

"Yes." She snapped, but there was no strength behind her terse reply. 'Light, the sheer implications…' The other wizard nodded again.

"The only way to find and utilize someone's remaining life energy in a spell isn't actually something anyone with out powers would do. However, another type of magic exists, and we know who uses that."

She nodded. There was no way around that fact.

"The priests of the Holy Light can call upon that power." She closed her eyes. "The Kirin Tor, the priesthood."

"Aye, the corruption runs deep, if we're right. And I think that we're very close to the truth on this."

"We don't know that."

"Ah, but do we need to? Imagine, just the possibility of it."

She detected the amusement in his voice, and fumed. Truly, the man had some arrogance in taking such things so lightly. Even though Antonidas personally vouched for the man, she felt ever more that he couldn't be trusted. She didn't even feel that Antonidas himself could be fully trusted. 'How can I trust them, they whom I've trusted all of my life?' she told herself.

It was with this thought that she rose to her feet. She had to meet with Khadgar. The man she both loved and was infuriated by was still in Nethergarde, preparing to join the Alliance Expedition. Only there, she felt, could she confide her fears and plans and trust to no leak.

"You have taken on a course of action, haven't you?" Kel'Thuzad mused, eyeing her carefully.

She didn't answer, only looked back calmly. At length, he nodded in understanding, rising from his seat, which disappeared at a flick of Rena's finger.

"You have a plan, but can't trust me on it." He mused, "I don't blame you, and I don't envy you what you might have to do. To possibly have to confront elements of both the Kirin Tor and the Church of the Holy Light… well, it's a little daunting."

"There's no need for that sarcasm, Lord Kel'Thuzad."

"No sarcasm on this, Lady Delado. Only the truth. I wish you luck, for all that means to you. Now, if you will permit me, I must transport to my own abode, to chronicle the fascinating thing you've just shown me."

And then the powerful archmage was gone, leaving Rena along with her thoughts. They were coalescing quickly, with a realization that hit her particularly hard: she had let things spiral out of control.

The capital had been attacked. The other Alliance nations were getting suspicious. And now even the Church of the Holy Light, with its priests and paladins, seemed compromised. She should have found a way to reverse the tendencies, or at least stall it. Instead, she'd been overwhelmed by the rate at which things had escalated.

Hardly worthy of one of her stature and knowledge. That, she promised herself, would change.

"I think I'll go see Khadgar right now after all." She mused.

With that thought in mind, she concentrated, and quickly went to make plans with the only other magi she fully trusted.

* * *

_Late Autumn 606, Menev Woods, Alterac_

Once they had managed to reach the shores of Alterac, Hellscream's people found that they had it rather easy in evading the Alliance.

Still, Hellscream found that there were a large number of human soldiers around. Many of them were mere foot soldiers or archers, but sometimes he could see heavily armoured riders galloping through roads and plains, plainly in control. From what little his scouts and his own eyes could have glimpsed, these soldiers and riders weren't welcome by the human peons.

"What's your impression on what they humans feel about the soldiers?" He asked his chief scout at one point during the debriefing. The answer hadn't taken long in coming.

"They hate the soldiers." The scout had said, but had shaken his head quickly, "Maybe not hatred. But, they don't want them here. They don't trust them. They're not supposed to be protecting them."

Hellscream sighed in frustration. This Alterac had an air of being downtrodden indeed. Every stronghold he'd seen was a blasted ruin, and the few stronger places seemed to be home to those soldiers which the human peons didn't like. He supposed that it was true that Alterac was occupied by the Alliance following the Second War.

Not that the chieftain cared about the humans. He didn't really have compassion for a race which should, by rights, have been overtaken by the Horde. That humans had been the driving force which had defeated the Horde only angered him. He stopped thinking of the humans' plight gladly.

"Any sign of our informant?" he asked.

"Nothing, chieftain." One of the lesser warriors told him. "But we're at the right place. This is the forest he wanted to meet us in."

Hellscream grunted. "He'd better not be making me wait too long. Or he won't parley with me long."

Truer words had rarely been spoken. He had managed to bring two thousand orcs with him, and to hide such a large force, even in a forest, was an exercise in patience which nearly sent him in a rampage. The times he had nearly killed someone couldn't be counted, and when the black mood took over Hellscream, even the sturdiest orc gave him a cautious space.

The thing was, he hated this land. It was too green and too bright for his liking. He preferred the red skies and brown and red tones of Dreanor. And it enraged him to be forced to hide, with the damning knowledge that, if he struck out against the Alliance with his current resources, he'd most probably be swiftly crushed.

'We should be ruling this world!' he snarled to himself. 'We almost did! If Gul'Dan hadn't betrayed us, if Doomhammer hadn't been such a fool…' He tried to quash the thoughts, but they came, blackening his mood.

As such, the human, when he arrived, found that he was extremely unwelcome. The human wore the armour and colours of Alterac, which much Hellscream had learned. But the armour was in bad shaped, the tabard torn, its colours faded.

"You're a Knight of Alterac?" Hellscream growled, his angry eyes scathing. To his credit, the knight didn't flinch.

"I am." The man bowed, talking in decent Dreanir. "Or I should say, I was. There are very few Knights left from Alterac. We were…" the man seemed to choke on something unpleasant. "…disbanded, on the order of King Terenas Menethil of Lordaeron."

There was a note of anger and contempt there. He imagined that this Terenas wasn't well-liked, as leader of the Alliance, among the people he had occupied. The knight didn't like that another leader had taken the decision to disband an old force. It told him something of humans, although he couldn't fully tell what yet.

"You don't like what this King Terenas has done…" Hellscream stated. The Knight drew himself up.

"I serve Alterac's crown, and that one is worn by King Perenolde, who was sent to exile. King Terenas had no right to tell us-" He was cut off by the chieftain's wave of his arm.

"I don't care about what is happening in your puny little country! You were weak and were beaten! What you do now isn't my concern! Now, give me the item I've come here for: The Book of Medhiv!"

The knight suddenly found himself surrounded by grunts. Despite the fact that he knew he would be crushed if he didn't give the object, he showed no apparent concern.

"Chieftain, I have been living on the run from the Alliance for years. I am a traitor who would be executed if I was found, so the fear of death has long stopped being a concern." The knight stated. "Further, I do not have the item. It is in another's hands presently."

Hellscream nearly strangled the human then and there. The only thing which stopped him – barely – was the fact that they needed the Book that Ner'Zul had made it more important than ten thousand grunts or more. And the orc knew well enough that, without the humans' help, he'd likely have his army forced to battle before he found it. If he did have a chance of finding it at all.

Still, the human found himself raised into the air in full armour even as the chieftain growled in tremendous wrath. The grunts took steps back, and the forest itself seemed to grow silent of life in that moment.

But Hellscream had regained his control. Harshly, he put the human back to his feet and glared at him. "You're taking risks, human. Knight or not, you should know our might."

"I haven't forgotten it." Came the even reply, "I fought you in the last war. But it is not your might which holds my country."

"I don't really care about that, pinkskin." Hellscream answered in disgust. "Your people are beaten, and that's that."

"But doing something about it will make us give you the spellbook."

The muscular chieftain glanced at the humans and then at his own people in surprise, then turned his attention to the human. That sentence had almost sounded like… 'No, they can't be serious. They can't want that. It's so stupid even a PEON wouldn't do it.' Still, he felt he did have to ask.

"What do you want?" he mused. The human seemed satisfied for some reason.

"West of here, the countries which occupy my lands – Lordaeron and Stromgarde – have built two compounds were they have stationed a large body of troops. If you destroy it, it can destabilize them in this region, allowing us to form a better resistance."

'Humans are more arrogant and more insane than a blasted warlock.' Came the unbidden thought. Taken by it, he chuckled mirthlessly.

"You want me to take my forces and risk my people for yours?" he grunted with a dangerous grin.

"That is correct, chieftain."

"I normally would tear you limb from limb for that, human!" he raged, taking a step forward, the blood pulsing in his head, throbbing and burning. But he stopped himself. It wasn't time for that. He had to keep control! "But I made my own oath to someone."

And a great oath it was. Shadowmoon controlled the Horde now, and he knew that Ner'Zul was powerful enough to reach him even here, if he failed and it came to the elder shaman's ears. With a snarl, he turned away from the human.

"We'll need guides. I want them in two days. Here. If they aren't, I'm not helping you. Undertand, pinkskin?"

"Completely." He heard the knight say. "And they will be there. You have my word of honour as a knight."

The orc wasn't totally certain he wanted to trust that honour. The human was ragged and desperate, and the order he was swearing to, it seemed, had been dissolved by a stronger clan, or country as pinkskins called it.

As the human left however, Hellscream had a feeling he had no choice but to help this pathetic band. He wanted something they had, and he didn't have the strength to risk a full conflict here.

The humans of Alterac had him. They knew it, and he knew it.

"But what you don't know." He snapped, "Is that hate to be told what to do more than most orcs. You think you can control Grom Hellscream? NO ONE controls Hellscream!"

The humans, he was certain, didn't know what kind of an enemy they'd just made in their new ally.

Hellscream promised himself that they would learn it before things ended.

* * *

_Late Autumn 606, Zeth'Kur, Dreanor_

Marcus Jonathan knew that the situation was bad. He also knew what it demanded. But he was the cavalry commander, not the general of the entire army. Still, if they didn't manoeuvre, the entire western part of the Expedition would be cut off and surrounded.

Why wasn't General Minvare doing something? A man of his calibre had to know, had to see this. Why wasn't he doing something? Why!

"Commander, the infantry is being outflanked." One of his captains said grimly. There was blood – his own and his enemies – on his armour, and rends and nicks on helm and sword. Jonathan knew he must look much the same. The battle hadn't been easy.

The battle had come to them suddenly. A force of twenty thousand orcs and ogres had attacked, thankfully with little naval or air support. However, they had caught the army while Turalyon and about a third of the army were out attempting to solidify their position. The Alliance still slightly outnumbered the orcs, but the lightning attack had surprised the army, and the battle had been largely even thus far.

However, he could see that the Wyvern Army and the Unicorn Army were faring much better than his own Dragon Army. They were moving more swiftly, their actions more assured. It wasn't that either army was more competent than his own, he knew. It was because, he had to admit it, that the army's leadership were giving stubborn, imprecise orders which confused the officers.

"Send two regiments to stop the enemy's flanking manoeuvre!" he ordered. "Two more will try to roll the encirclement back!" he looked as a messenger quickly galloped towards him. "At last. Did Lord Minvare say anything? What are his orders?"

"Sir! His orders are to hold our present position, commander!"

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. The position was hilly, barren of cover, and unsuitable for charges or defence. It was one of the worst positioning that Jonathan had seen, and he'd seen a few.

"Is the general aware of our predicament?" he snapped, trying hard not to lash out at the younger man. It didn't quite work, as the messenger flinched from the harsh tone. Jonathan calmed his tone as much as he could. "Boy, have you told him everything I told you?"

"E-everything, yessir. He just told me that you had to hold your ground."

'Hold my ground! Here!' he told himself, 'Such blindness!' However, his orders were clear, and he had to obey them whether he liked them or not. Consequently, he ordered his men to hold the line.

"Commander! Ogres!" One knight told them, and indeed there was a large force of ogres advancing towards them. Jonathan drew his sword and pointed at the large creatures. Cries and curses issued from the troops, but his captains quickly brought order back.

"At them, men! Protect the army!" he shouted. With a roar, the assembled force of armoured knights and cavaliers surged forward.

The enemy force was faster. Horses were impeded on that terrain, and were consequently sluggish. Thus, the ogres had the advantage from the very start. Still, the order had been given and the people chosen for the expedition were neither shirkers nor cowards. They struck back at the ogrish wave with trained strength.

Jonathan also found himself in combat with an ogre. He knew how to handle them from past experiences however, and deftly turned aside or avoided the mighty fists which could crush rocks. Ogres were powerful but decidedly stupid, and it took only a certain amount of skill – and luck – to defeat one.

But even as he felled his first one and began to fight the second, he knew that his cavalry was in danger. They could hold the line for this first charge. But there would be others. And the terrain wouldn't allow them much at all. Still, his orders held, and they came from the highest authority.

'The highest here?' one thought nagged him as a he fought. 'No, there is one way out of this, and you know what it is.'

When the Ogres finally had enough and retreated back, his shield was gone, his left arm broken by a powerful blow, but three Ogres lay dead at his feet. Amidst the pain, however, he saw that many of his people hadn't been as skilled – or as lucky – as he'd been.

"How many?" he asked through clenched teeth. He wasn't sure if it was pain or anger which clenched them, either.

"Two hundred at least, commander." Another knight, who looked equally mangled, answered him. All around, moans of pain and curses were heard, clear even in the din of battle. It was a sight he had seen often, a sound he had heard often. But it had never come from such bad decision-making in a long time. His forces were being misused, and mistreated by inadequate orders.

He decided to listen to that thought. There were two men – one human and one elf – who still showed their full potential to lead. And one of them outranked his own leader.

"I want a message sent to Lord-General Swiftblade immediately." He snapped. "Tell him we're moving northward, towards that plain, so we can use our horses better."

The knights seemed uncertain at that. He knew why, and he wasn't surprised when one began to tell him. "But, commander, the general's orders are to…"

"The Light blast the general's orders!" he growled. "He can relieve me if he wishes, but the Darkness takes me if I let his ridiculous orders destroy us all. Send the message to Swiftblade. Tell him we need approval of our order, but that we will have to move beforehand! Go!"

The messenger only hesitated a moment, before moving back from the front lines. Jonathan faced his men squarely. He could feel their hesitation – they weren't used to not obeying Minvare. But, then, Minvare hadn't been known to give such wrong orders. Not until recently, that was.

"We move now. Do not worry. The responsibility will be mine." He said, and turned his horse around.

They followed. Hesitantly, but they followed. It seemed that they trusted his orders more than their general's as well. This was rather frightening. What had happened to such a man as Minvare to make him so…so blind?

The answer would have to wait. Following his banner-bearer, the column began to move to their new position, until they cleared the hills. It was a judicious choice, it seemed. The sun was high up in the air, red as always in this world, and allowed Jonathan to spot the enemy easily.

Ogres and some orcs. They had seen them, and were making their way towards them. The commander grinned. This time, the Horde wouldn't find the cavalry struggling. The ground was good enough for a charge and, with a gesture, he ordered it to begin.

The officers quickly put the ranks in position. Hundreds of men swiftly took positions, and waited for Jonathan to give the signal. The man wasn't about to wait for that. In an instant, he thrust his hand downward, and the sound of the horns sounding the charge resounded.

The line began to advance. First a trot, then a gallop, and then they seemed to run against the win itself. Knights took up lances, others readied their sword. Many gave great cries and oaths as the cavalry barrelled towards the enemy.

The shock was the same as before. This time, however, the humans had the momentum. The surging line had confused the Horde, it seemed, and had made them hesitate. The forces met in a clash of steel, blood and pain. This time, however, it was the Horde which had to weather the onslaught. And, as they had often been, the orcs showed themselves weaker on defence than in offence.

Terrific combat ensued. Knight smashed against ogres and orcs. One human fell, to be followed by an Ogre's death yell and an orc's quick death. Despite the pain in his broken arm, Jonathan managed to fell one wounded ogre, before he had to disengage. With a sigh, he took a potion from his belt and swallowed it. At once, a warmth spread around his body, and the pain in his arm began to recede.

It was at that moment that the second skirmish ended, both sides retiring – grudgingly – from the field. Jonathan didn't look for the dead this time, but he felt that the morale had been somewhat lifted by the charge.

It was as he gave orders to reform that the messenger arrived, galloping with another Knight, who had the rank of captain. He was most certainly, Jonathan reasoned, one of Swiftblade's aides.

"What is happening? Do you have orders for me?" he asked quickly. The messenger looked uncomfortable, and the knight, although helmet-less, was as impassive as iron. The cavalry leader knew that it didn't bode well.

And then the knight raised his hand, sighed, and then stared at Jonathan calmly.

"Commander Jonathan. You are to come to Lord-General Swiftblade's tent at once. If you refuse, I will be forced to arrest you."

No. It didn't bode well at all.

* * *

_Late Autumn 606, Shadowmoon Fortress, Dreanor_

There was an undeniable note, Ner'Zul knew, of something other than pure anger as he let his rage loose against Kilrogg Deadeye and Korgath Bladefist, who had engineered the attack upon the pinkskins.

"I gave you a fifth of our remaining forces!" He shouted balefully, and his aged frame prowled around the somewhat younger chieftains. "I gave you forces and I was promised a great victory! The humans were divided, they were caught by surprise! You told me all that yourselves!"

"And yet," he added in contempt, "You two return to me in abject defeat! Fools! Do you want us to become the laughingstock of our race?"

At this, Deadeye's face quivered from his bowed position. "Chieftain, we weren't ready for the battle. Our tactics were wrong, and our numbers were too small for the task."

"Too small! Twenty thousand of our strongest warriors!" Bladefist mocked.

"Twenty thousand idiots is what I saw." Deadeye replied stiffly. Bladefist surged to his feet, even as the other warrior did the same. Both elderly chieftains glared at each other for a long moment, their mutual loathing evident.

"You dare imply my clan's at fault?" Bladefist hissed.

"Your clansmen are at fault!" he snapped in response. "They moved forward without thinking, against an opponent who was thinking! Don't think of yourself as before the second war with the humans. Our power isn't the same. Its small now, a tenth of what it was. A twentieth!"

"And you helped them win when our people struggled against them, didn't you?" Bladefist stated coldly. "In that case…!"

The blow caught even Ner'Zul off-guard. He had been watching the altercation irritably but intently. He had trouble believing that the old male could move so swiftly, his hand doubling into a fist and snapping forth, forcing Bladefist away, were he stood angrily clutching his face with his good hand.

Only for a moment, however. The next, the scythe nearly cut off Deadeye's face, and the two went barrelling down, fists swinging, curses flying as anger mounted between the two. Ner'Zul knew that it had been coming for a while now, that the two chieftains had been wishing to settle old grievances for many years. He was of half a mind to let them do exactly that.

But he couldn't. The stakes were high, too high. Higher than the two fighting males could imagine. As such, Ner'Zul decided to swiftly settle the conflict. As such, he drew within himself to summon his magic.

It had been easy, once. When he had been a shaman, and his strength came from the spirits, the power had come easily. Not so now. The spirits had long been silent, cut off from the old orc. And the new powers had always been tainted by the demons who provided them, indirectly though they might.

It was even worse, now. Each time he drew on his power, he could feel him. Kil'Jaeden. It was as if the eyes of the one who had corrupted the orc race were fixed upon him.

He had known that gaze for a long time. He had known that it was watching, seething with anger, seething with the fact that he, an orc, had ultimately tried to refuse the pact that the Burning Legion had tried to make. It would have failed, had Gul'Dan not been so greedy for power, willingly plunging them all into this curse, this darkness.

And Kil'Jaeden hadn't forgotten. Or forgiven. The Legion wasn't strong enough to come take him yet, but it would be. He was certain of that. One day, they would be.

It was while observing the Portal that the elder shaman had had an idea. If he could escape to another world while the present world was in magical turmoil, he might slip away, perhaps indefinitely. The archdemon, after all, wasn't omnipotent not omniscient.

It was then that he had decided: he would find the means with which to open many portals, and escape through one quickly. Dreanor might be destroyed, but he cared not. It was a rotten, lost world at any rate. The reason he used magic now was to keep his pawns in place the way he wanted, nothing else.

A burst of magical energy forced the two opponents away from each other, and then another spell froze their feet in place. Still, they struggled to move, glaring at each other. Their curse was overflowing, and threatened to affect the Shaman. But he had been aware of the full corruption years ago, and knew how to defend his mind. He steadied his spell calmly enough.

"How dare you use magic on me!" Bladefist roared. Deadeye only glared silently.

"We have the Alliance to worry about. They're numerous and well-supplied. If we leave them alone, they'll become dangerous. You said that yourself, Kilrogg." He sneered. "And still, after that last defeat, you two fight each other while our enemy is reinforcing. You two are acting like little orclings."

The two males were old, and respected by the clans. They had seen far more victories than defeats on Draenor and were popular figure. They weren't used to being called orclings by anyone, not matter how powerful. But, for all of their curse, they were wise enough to see that it was foolish to fight with an enemy at one's doorstep. Very tensely, that was true, but they managed to get their tempers under control.

He waited a moment before speaking. "Now that we've passed the era of bloodlust, maybe one of you can tell me how we can stop the humans after the last failure. We lost more than they did, and we can't have that."

"My soldiers fought well!" Bladefist defended. Deadeye glared.

"They fought well, but they had too much zeal and not enough tactics. You'll never defeat the Alliance with just brute force. Believe me, it's been tried."

Ner'Zul released them from the spell, but kept his eyes on them. In a way, the two could be as vicious as Dentarg, and less easy to manipulate. He'd have to be careful about them.

"What then? Is there something we can do against them?"

"We can. Battle's been tried, but we can try something we learned on the human lands." Deadeye said. Ner'Zul knew he looked sceptical at this.

"And that's…"

"The humans call it… false diplomacy."

"You want to talk with the humans?" Bladefist snapped angrily. Only Ner'Zul's warning glance kept him from rushing the other chieftain again. "I say we gather all of our forces and crush them! We outnumber them too much! We'll win!"

Deadeye gave the other orc a look filled with contempt. "They'll have fortified by now. Yes, we'll win if we fight. But we'll be easy pickings if the Alliance manages to send another invasion force."

"Can they?" Ner'Zul queried.

The chieftain blinked his remaining eye many times, in obvious thought. It always took Ner'Zul by surprise. The Bleeding Hollow Clan's chieftain had always been thirsty for battle at any costs. And yet, the years fighting the humans and the other people on that other place had made him…unusually cautious. What 'were' these humans, to change the orc people so completely?

"I doubt it." Deadeye said after a few long moments of deep thought. "I doubt it, but I've been wrong before. They might be able to send another force. It'd drain them for years, but if we were weakened then…"

The leader of the Shadowmoon clan withdrew into his own thoughts at that. This wasn't news he liked. It was necessary for him to have access to the portal, if only for a short while. The items he'd sent Hellscream for were crucial for his plans. Medhiv's book contained the knowledge, and his foolish apprentice's skull would allow a good focus of power. With these and much power, he could open his own portal.

He could escape from the Legion's wrath! Forever!

"Tell me then, Kilrogg. How do we get the humans to trust us?" he mused. Bladefist looked rather aghast.

"Ner'Zul!" he growled, but he was forced into sullen silence by the old shaman's stern glare. This was Shadowmoon's greatest bastion, and he ruled Shadowmoon.

"That's enough out of you, Kargath. When you prove yourself against the humans, you can talk." He ignored the other orc's glare and concentrated on Deadeye. "Now, tell me what you're planning.

"The humans won't believe us if we just start talking about peace." The one-eyed orc mused, "But there is a way to make them work with us."

"And that would be?"

"Well, chieftain, I think we can make sure they don't think they have any choice!"

* * *

Alterac, Occupied Nation

When the Alliance, through the works of several spies and soldiers, learned of Alterac's treachery, its High Command moved fast. A large army, largely made up of soldiers and knights from Lordaeron and Stromgarde, but including several mages from Dalaran, was sent, Along with a smaller Azerothian force, to Alterac.

The small nation called upon all of its forces, and summoned a very large militia. The end, however, came swiftly. No match for the experienced and well-trained Alliance forces, the realm's borders were smashed in, their forces broken and scattered in a series of running battles, and the capital finally seized. King Terenas imposed martial law, and, with agreement from the other national leaders, dissolved Alterac's sovereignty. The matter was settled until after the Second War.

The end of the Second War brought many problems, with Alterac's being particularly divisive. Stromgarde, Alterac's more powerful neighbour, wishes to annex some of its eastern lands, a move that Lordaeron has resisted. Although Terenas and Trollbane have no which to go to war, the situation has driven a wedge between them, and weakened the Alliance as a whole in recent years.

Alterac itself, however, retains some viability. Many knights and soldiers have refused to pledge allegiance to any Alliance nations, and use guerrilla tactics to assail the occupiers. At the same time, a new organization has become troublesome in the area, gaining power at an astounding rate. Named the Syndicate, it has eluded Alliance forces as well.

It is clear to all that Alterac may become a very large problem in the future, especially with the War of the Portal, as many call it, draining more resources from Alliance assets.


	11. Chapter Ten: Rage and Guile

**Chapter Ten: Rage and Guile**

_Late Autumn 606, Zeth'Kur, Dreanor_

Aerth Swiftblade could barely contain his anger as he regarded a man he had once respected, even admired. A man he had counted as a comrade and friend. Beside him, Illadan Eltrass looked at the failing man with contempt, a contempt mingled with sadness.

High General Turalyon, commander of all Alliance forces, kept his face neutral, as lively as marble, yet his eyes smouldered.

"The damage to your forces was substantially higher than that of any others, General Minvare." The paladin said with forced calm.

"So I heard."

"And do you have any explanation for such heavy losses. Losses which, I may add, we cannot afford to have?" The blonde man mused with restraint.

It took a moment for Rellon Minvare to respond. During that time, Swiftblade looked at his former friend and was appalled by the changes. Minvare, during the Second War, had been a rock of wry calmness, not being upset by reversals, even defeats. His steady leadership and calm moves had kept him victorious in the end, and he had deservedly become a legend to his men.

But now…

Now, what Swiftblade saw was a strained, drawn-out man, a man with little to no patience left. His eyes were sunken and haunted, his appearance ruffled and downtrodden. There was also the resentment, far higher than anything Swiftblade had ever felt from the man. Rellon Minvare was gone. Not only in spirit, but in body.

"The orcs attacked fiercely, with successive waves. There was little time for redeployments." The disgraced General grunted. Despite the ache he felt, Swiftblade also felt a great deal of irritation, and it resounded as he answered in a sharp voice.

"Light take me!" he growled, "I saw the orc movements. The orcs here aren't adapted, and they used basic Horde tactics, without improvements! We've all learned to fight despite the successive waves."

"Indeed." Eltrass said, "Your skills have greatly decreased since we fought together in the previous war. I respected your skills, we all did. But this is making you increasingly unfit to command."

Minvare shrugged, still looking at the three men seated in front of him levelly. Swiftblade wondered if his former friend, from whom he had forcibly taken command, realized what he had done. Could the hate and frustration have driven him from his well-grounded sense of morals?

"I'm thinking of making Jonathan take command of your troops, General." Turalyon mused. "I already sent a message to the dwarves. There is one excellent general there. I am thinking he should replace you."

"This must be an elating moment for you, isn't it just, oh High General of the Alliance?" Minvare frankly sneered.

"If you think that, then you really never understood me at all." Turalyon replied calmly. "Your skills were never in doubt in the old days, and you had my respect. That you lost both is all the more regrettable."

Minvare's sunken eyes flashed, his brows constricting. "Don't ever talk to me about respect or regret!"

Swiftblade looked at Eltrass, who nodded. The human and the elf had both felt the air electrify again. Would the dam burst today, or would it be another day? Recently, it had drained the man to wait for that terrible moment. Turalyon and Minvare, after all, were by no means people who could be taken lightly in any sense.

"This has gone on far too long. I have been lenient up until now, but there are limits." Turalyon stated.

"Lord Turalyon." Swiftblade cautioned, but the paladin continued, unheeding.

"Let me finish what I have to say, Lord Swiftblade. Lord Minvare, you have proven yourself utterly unfit for command. You have refused to rectify your orders and formations, let morale decline in your army, and sacrificed your men in something you could have easily avoided." The paladin's eyes narrowed. "You are a disgrace to the Light."

"Ah! The Light! You Paladins and your Holy Light! Parading your righteousness everywhere you go!" Minvare growled, "And yet, you have served injustice before! Your were its instruments!"

"What the Order of the Silver Hand did, it did because the Alliance Council decided it. We obeyed orders, as we are knights as well. As for the one whom you speak of…" Turalyon sighed, and Swiftblade closed his eyes. It wasn't something anyone Swiftblade knew liked to recall: the arrest, the trial, the judgement. But Turalyon wasn't quite done. He fixed Minvare with a steely stare.

"As for her, she was a proud soldier to the very end. She would despise the wreck you have become."

Minvare, for all of his physical weakening, could still move like lightning, it seemed.

One moment, he was sitting across from them, tense. The next, he had bowled over the paladin and was on top of him. Minvare's weight and position gave him an instant advantage, and he punched the High General across the face with indescribable rage.

"Damn you! You and your so-called Light!" Minvare roared, and punched the other man again.

By then, of course, Swiftblade and Eltrass intervened. Although neither could quite match the frantic man's strength, they managed to peel him off somewhat between the two of them. The commotion reached outside, of course, as did Swiftblade's call for the guards.

In moments, the two guards who were stationed outside the tent had hold of Minvare, looking flabbergasted at what they just had to do. Swiftblade couldn't blame them; it must have been quite disheartening to see the four men who commanded the expedition engaged in fighting.

Swiftblade gave the angry Minvare a glance which was both angry and saddened. Then he gestured to the guards. "Escort him to his private tent. On my personal authority, and that of Lord-General Eltrass and High General Turalyon, he is to be kept there until further notice."

"Sire!" they acknowledged as one, and left, taking the disgraced hero with them.

They were barely out that Swiftblade rounded on Turalyon, who was getting back on his feet. He pointed an angry finger at the other man.

"Lord Turalyon! That was uncalled for!" He accused.

Turalyon closed his eyes a moment, and put his right hand on his bruised face. A soft light emanated at once, and the swelling and redness disappeared as quickly as they had –violently - appeared.

"In what way was it uncalled for, Lord Swiftblade?" Turalyon asked sharply. "He is derelict in his duties; he has endangered our men and our mission for the nations of the Alliance. And for what reason? Because he broods in hatred!"

"That is so, and he should be punished." The greying general mused, frowning. "But there was no necessity to fling Goldenhorn's name in his face that way! Where she is concerned, how can we say his brooding is WRONG! All three of us were at that Light-cursed trial! We saw and we let it happen! How can we be surprised that his mind is unsettled?"

"Lord Swiftblade, you are the one who recommended him. Who insisted that he came." Turalyon mused, giving Swiftblade a level look, which was returned. The eye contact was quickly broken, however, when the elven general came between them.

"Now, I do think that this one fight is quite enough." He mused calmly, but with command. "As humans go, you two are remarkable. Remarkable enough, I'm sure, to see where we are. Do you see it, or will you fight like common thugs?"

That made Swiftblade pause. Scowling at the High General, knowing he wasn't truly angry at the man, he stormed out, passing men who, seeing the general's face, worked hard to step out of the way. He barely acknowledged the men as he went through the vast camp.

'You remember it all too well, don't you, Aerth?' his mind told him. 'Oh, you didn't like it. You tried to prevent it. But, when it comes down to it, you watched like everyone else as it happened. Where was the justice in that? What if it had been Eira?'

He knew the answer for that one. He would have died before it happened. That was why he understood. That was why he had 'arrested' Jonathan to give a pretence, a pretence he felt to be false now. Yet he knew where the rage came from.

That was why he couldn't quite blame Minvare despite what happened.

And, because he understood, and had seen the man's actions, he knew he had made a very dire, very personal, mistake.

* * *

_Late Autumn 606, Fort Highcreek, Alterac_

Hellscream studied the fortifications and found that they were simple, yet adequate for the intended task.

The humans had built reinforced stone buildings – barracks, if he was any judge – as well as a stable, a small human temple and several other, smaller, buildings. The entire compound had been encircled by a single stone wall of about one and half orcs thickness to it.

He thought that there might be three, perhaps four, hundred humans inside. With the walls, it could survive a battle from a larger force. Still, it would be no match against thousands of orc warriors.

The other compound to the west was somewhat larger, and he thought that there were at least five hundred humans inside. These people – less than a thousand – were responsible for much of Alterac's southern regions. If they were destroyed, the Alliance would be destabilized long enough for Alterac's uprising.

Not that Hellscream cared whether it would succeed or not. The Alliance could kill everyone in Alterac; all the chieftain wanted was the arcane elements that Ner'Zhul needed to make the Horde powerful once more. That was why he had sent his very best scout, Lirasha, on reconnaissance in the wider area. That was why he had gone closer to the target of his people's coming attacks.

"So, what do you think?" The chieftain asked.

"Honestly, chieftain, aside from being sick at the idea of helping the humans…"

"We've been through this. My decision is made. What do you think?" Hellscream asked, more forceful this time.

Lirasha, a female, was considered small and delicate by orc standards. Many newer grunts wondered why a female like her was within the armies at all. Some had even eschewed advice from more experienced soldiers and attempted to 'put her in her place'. They hadn't survived, killed quickly by the scouts's swift and deadly knives. Hellscream knew her worth, and so waited for her opinion, even forgetting about her frustrated outburst.

The scout took a mere moment to consider. "They have more troops around. If they gathered everything, they might put two thousand against us."

Hellscream looked at the human fortress from the gloom of the trees, frowning. Two thousand, while he had nearly nine with him.

"We could take two thousand. However…" he almost choked, but continued after a moment, "However, we're no here to start a war. Not yet. Can they be taken?"

"If we move quickly, maybe." She sounded hesitant.

He raised an eyebrow. "You're my best scout. If you're thinking something useful for me, say it." He commanded harshly. "I have no time to guess what's on your mind." He added, pointing a finger at her, fingering his axe.

The scout sighed. "We'll pay in blood to take the bases. I don't like seeing that blood lost to the humans like that."

Hellscream understood the sentiment. All of this political gameplay seemed no surprise to orcs who had fought in the human lands for many years, but it didn't suit him. He was a blademaster, he loved to fight, and everything else came from that. Far from mentally inept, Hellscream carried the single-minded battle-lust which had affected the orcs as a whole, and which the Warsong Clan had embraced with vigour.

But the humans, it seemed, were all about deals and politics. From what he'd been able to learn of them in the time he'd been on their world, the seven main human clans had spent most of the last several centuries bickering that way, instead of the straightforward ways of the battlefield.

They were repulsive, and alien, to the orc. And he had no choice but to go along with it.

"Believe me, I'm not joyful about helping them. They should have been crushed long ago. And if I have my way, they WILL be crushed like they should be. In time. But until we get back the power we need to do that, we need to be…patient." He stated the last word with a cynical chuckle. Patience had, after all, never been Hellscream's forte.

He'd ordered his men to hided deep into the forest to avoid detection. Aside from a bandit hold – which they cleared and took for themselves, the woods had been no problem to settle into. So, from the woods, the orcs prepared to make war on the humans at the request of other humans. It was a bitter thought to say the least.

One good thing had been that the humans of Alterac, wishing to aid the orcs, had sent several dismantled catapults, remnants of the orc bases which once stood in the region. It had been a good help, and raised the Warsong Clan's chances by much.

The orc warriors themselves were increasingly restless. There had been no fighting for too long, and many had problems standing it. The ban on training – to avoid detection – had only compounded the problem. Three times, already, Hellscream had been challenged by battle-lust-blinded orcs. He had put all three down easily, but it hadn't calmed things.

One thing was clear: it was time to fight.

Or his men would begin to truly fight themselves. He had no intention of letting that happen. He'd kill them all before he'd allow them to disobey him that way.

He made the plan simple: the catapults would pellet the defences until they were weakened, then the infantry would charge in. He knew that some of the human mounted warriors would attempt to break the siege, but there seemed to be rather few of these, and he thought that the few ogres he'd managed to round up would manage fine.

There were few questions. Not that he had expected any. His people were used to warfare and, mostly, were used to obeying his orders. There was one question, however, which came as no surprise, and to which he found no hasty answer.

"How do we know the pinkskins'll keep their word?"

Hellscream had a rather hard time with that one. In truth, there WAS no way to know this with any certitude. The humans had proven treacherous at times, and he didn't put it past them to say one thing and do quite another. He didn't show these doubts to his people, though: to do so was to invite weakness – and possible replacement.

"I don't think that the humans of Alterac can afford to have us as an enemy. They've already angered everyone else." He mused. "They'll keep their word, or we'll secretly tell the Alliance just where the rebels seemed to be holed up."

They didn't actually like that much, either. It sounded like they would do what the humans would want, one way or the other. Hellscream, however, had come to a painful realization; The Alliance had the upper hand in the present, the Horde did not. Although his heart and very blood burned with the need to see the humans humbled, their will broken, their lands sundered, Hellscream did manage to see that that wouldn't help him achieve his goals.

He would play by the human rules until he had what he wanted. But the moment he did have it…

"Well, we'll think about the details later. We have two forts to take down! Get everyone ready for battle!" he ordered, and received a rough cheer for the pronouncement.

He walked away from his people, and towards a secluded place near the camp. All the while, Hellscream watched if anyone followed. His orders had been given, and he would lead the effort. But, before that, he had one last thing to do.

The death knight was waiting where he had said he would. Of all the allies he had found, Hellscream knew that they might be the most dangerous, and were probably the most insidious. But they were also quite powerful, and he liked to work with power effectively.

"Are there human spellcasters?" He asked with all the steel he could muster, covering his unease. The rotting carcass spoke as if from death itself.

"Yes, there are. But they are weak, and they have little power compared to us."

"Then you know what I want you to do." Hellscream said decidedly. He did not make it a request. It would not do. To the Death Knights, one did not soften or hesitate. One only gave commands.

There was a moment of eerie silence, as no insect or animal stirred from the very presence's effect. Hellscream also held his breath and his peace, but kept his steady gaze on the hooded, glowing-eyed face. At long last, the former human spoke.

"Yes. And we will." The cold, spectral voice uttered. "You'll have your victory here, and your victories later. But we are not chained by you. If you ever slip, we will destroy you easily."

Hellscream grinned with no mirth whatsoever, his eyes cold.

"Do what I want, and I'll risk damnation, lost soul."

* * *

_Late Autumn 606, Sunshire, Azeroth_

Eira Fregar Swiftblade couldn't believe that she was doing something like this. She had been born and raised as the daughter of the late Duke Fregar of House Fregar, a line which had endured for centuries. She knew, from her upbringing and personal inclinations, that sometimes a noble had to make political compromises, whether said noble liked it or not.

She watched as the carriage carrying Lady Katrana Prestor, a woman she personally neither liked nor trusted, rumbled through the wide main street of busy Sunshire. She watched, and wondered just how much she would soon have to compromise.

She stood within her husband's private sanctum. Aside from Aerth, only she was allowed without any permission. Even their oldest soon, Vedran, was forbidden entry without his father's permission.

It wasn't an especially secret room, as a window let the sunlight filter in, lightening the tones. In keeping with his own habits – which Eira knew, had been picked up from years of campaigning – the room was kept tidy, with each item at a determined place, in a functional way. A small bookshelf stood near the dark, wooden desk and the comfortable chair. The books there weren't much for leisure, but were military treatises, often annotated with Aerth's own observations.

What was important, in this room, were the maps and trophies. The maps were of all kinds, of all shapes and sizes, rolled up or spread on part of the desk. All had served at some point. The trophies were weapons: Aerth's footman blade, carefully preserved all these years; the axe of a powerful orc warrior, the teeth from a black dragon's maw. And, contrasting with the rather martial feel of the place, a rather large portrait of Eira herself, made when they had been exiles at Taren Mill.

She sighed, and wished her husband was with her as she headed towards the main hall. Unused though he was to politics, he had a straightforward way about him which might have helped in dealing with Katrana Prestor.

Lady Prestor was as charming as ever, of course. Haughty, well-dressed, and beautiful, she appeared the elegant paragon of what a noblewoman should be. To the servants and soldiers, she was gently patronizing, while she walked through the halls of Castle Swiftblade and praised it.

"To think it was rebuilt with such care after such devastation." The black-haired lady murmured, "I can scarcely believe it."

"Yes, well, my husband was able to secure help from the dwarves of Khaz Modan. Their skill at stonework allowed rebuilding to proceed quickly enough."

"Yes, I do recognize some dwarven hands in all of this. Still, it is a beautiful stronghold from which your House can grow powerful." Katrana replied smoothly.

Eira kept herself from frowning. Already, Lady Prestor was beginning to make insinuations about the nobility's everlasting power plays. But she knew such things as much as she knew how to breathe.

"Indeed. With my lord and husband's reputation and friendship with the king, I fear nothing for our continued prosperity in Sunshire." She smiled politely. Katrana laughed softly.

"Ah, you saw through me, as expected. House Fregar was always shrewd, or so they say in the court." The smile broadened. "Yes, I will admit that I would seek some aid from House Swiftblade's might."

Eira couldn't help but give a sardonic edge to her voice. "You would need help from our fledgling house, you who has the king's ear?" She queried.

"I do have some political weight, and my wealth is substantial." Katrana admitted readily, "However, I have nowhere near the military might that House Swiftblade has. Don't look so dubious, Lady Swiftblade. Your husband has the largest and best-trained forces in Azeroth, and he knows most human, dwarven and elven military commanders personally. If that is not an incredible military potential, then what could it be?"

"Well…"

"And this castle, this city, these lands. All rebuilt and prosperous, so soon after we retook the realm. There is usually a great deal of orc raids on such rich farmlands. Yet, how many have there been here recently?"

Eira frowned. She hated to admit it, but she had never though about military matters much. She could – and, often, had – outwit her quick-witted husband on many occasions when it came to history and the court, but had also known she was no match in terms of military knowledge and the knowledge of the common folk. She had let him take care of all the troubles while she took care of re-establishing trade and prosperity.

Still, she had listened to Aerth often enough to realize just how many orc attacks had threatened her lands recently.

"None," she answered steadily, "Not in the last three years. I see what you mean. I suppose our forces are blooded and effective. The question, Lady Prestor, is why you would need it."

"You have seen the tragedy at the House of Nobles' meeting hall, did you not?" Katrana asked.

Eira felt a chill. She remembered that event indeed. The broken body, slung over the meeting table, in the midst of all the security the meeting hall was supposed to afford. The red scarf, arrogantly laying claim to the murder. Yes, she remembered. She also knew enough of the dangerous and unpredictable Defias Brotherhood to make a good guess in what all of that could now mean.

"You think that they mean to move against you, now?"

"Move against me? Doubtless. But also against you, Lady Swiftblade."

Her first thought upon hearing that wasn't anything related to herself, but rather on her children. Her concern for them exploded, nearly blinding her, before she managed to bring herself under control.

She had seen her brother and parents die by orc axes. She had known the terror and despair of the Exodus from Azeroth. She had seen battle, had walked the dangerous depths beneath Lordaeron's mighty capital. She felt no fear for herself. She could handle danger if it came to her. Her children, however… they were different. She'd sheltered them from such realities. For them to be put in danger…

"I see, from your eyes, that you understand now." Katrana's voice interjected. Blinking, Eira looked around the halls which now no longer seemed as safe as she had once felt they were.

She led Katrana Prestor to her own reading room. More furnished in books and fine art than Aerth's room, it had been crafted to be her personal refuge. Like Aerth's room, only her husband could enter without announcing himself. And, like her husband's room, it had been subtly protected by spells from wizards who owed Aerth a few favours. In that room, no one could hear what they said even if they used spells. And the large gnome-crafted window was as solid as steel for the exact same reasons.

"Impressive." Was all Katrana said before sitting in one of the plush chairs.

"Given what you said, I felt it was better to talk here, where we cannot be heard." Eira said, keeping her worry for her children firmly in check.

"A prudent course." Katrana agreed with a nod, "I take it this room is magically protected?"

"My husband has many friends from his days in the war." Eira stated. "In rebuilding the city and my former home, he asked for many favours owed him by many people. This room is safe, I assure you."

The black-haired, beautiful noblewoman gave a placid smile. "Far from me to question Lord-General Swiftblade's dispositions, but I had to make sure. Yes, Lady Eira, I fear we are in danger. My… agents… have been nervous of late. Moonbrooke's cancerous group might want us silenced."

"But why?" Eira wondered. "Both your house and mine are powerful in the House of Nobles, but killing us would never bring it down. It makes no sense, however you look upon it."

The raven-haired woman looked at Eira speculatively, as if gauging her. Once again, there was discomfort. Even as an ally, she found Katrana mildly intimidating. She couldn't fathom how it would be if they were enemies.

"They may seek to replace us. To coerce us or others. I control many interests in the Kingdom. You have a wealthy, thriving land and the ear of one of the most powerful military men in the entire Alliance. I daresay they could do serious trouble if they killed or captured us. What say you, then, Eira Fregar-Swiftblade?"

Eira found herself chilled by Katrana's stair. Yet she couldn't turn away. She kept looking, oddly compelled.

"To what?" she managed to croak.

"To taking fate by the reins." Came the other woman's voice, who was smiling grimly. "They wish to use us? Then, I say, let them come." She leaned forward.

"We will bait them, lure them. And then, we shall see who controls who."

* * *

_Late Autumn 606, Fort Highcreek, Alterac_

The walls had been stoutly built. Hellscream had to give the humans that much. However, they'd been built with the mindset that the people of Alterac were a beaten people, incapable of mounting the sort of attack needed to damage, much less destroy, the fortress.

In the corner of his mind, the part where the lust for battle wasn't overpowering him, the chieftain of the Warsong Clan had to agree with the logic. He had seen enough of the small, broken country to agree that Alterac was nothing now. Its warriors were few, raided in little bands, with no central authority.

The humans hadn't bothered with factoring orcs into it. After all, what remained of the Horde was too far south to come up and catch them unawares. On that, they had been fatally mistaken.

"Again!" he shouted, and the catapults fired, pelting the weakened walls, concentrating at one point. It held, barely. The humans on top were scurrying, trying to shore up their shattering defences. Twice, a small band of mounted troops had tried to disrupt the catapults. Each time, they had retreated with heavy losses.

He shouted again. The catapults crashed on the walls. With a mighty crackly, like an avalanche, the targeted part of the wall fell down. His host roared in exultation. Now was the time to slaughter the humans inside.

"We will soften them first." A spectral voice called, and forms galloped off on skeletal steeds. Fifteen Death Knights charged the breach, their staves and hands glowing with ethereal magic. But it wasn't that which made the humans at the breach scramble. For, with the Death Knights, came a mass of shambling dead. Corpses risen with the dark powers of magic, they couldn't be held long. But they'd serve well to destroy the humans' will.

But not too much. Where was the glory…where was the FUN in doing that?

"OGTAR-OGAR! Warriors of Warsong!" He screamed, and they howled in response. He lifted his bladed spear above his head. "Kill everyone of them! Don't leave one single human alive! Understand!"

Again, the roar. Bloodshot eyes, wide eyes, squinting eyes showed the same excitement, the same overwhelming lust for combat and blood. Hellscream was barely keeping them – keeping HIMSELF – in check. Soon, they would break inside, no matter what their chieftain said.

"KILL THEM ALL!" he screamed again. "ATTACK!" With that, he ran into the fray.

The humans – along with some long-eared pinkskins, and some short bearded pinkskins – elves and dwarves, the conscious part of his brain told him – were attempting to hold off the assault. But they were tired, and frightened. For two days, they had held the Horde back, and now they were failing.

The dead were on them, destabilizing their ranks, while a few robed humans seemed to try to undo the dark magics. These humans fell very quickly, struck down by the Death Knights, writhing, rotting alive.

None of that mattered. Nothing mattered to Hellscream but the battlefield now.

He came at the massed human and undead like a whirlwind, uncaring that he hit both, and waded into them. One undead was torn apart to get to a human knight, who tried to put up a defence before he was slain. One of the dwarves tried to strike from below with a large axe, but the chieftain evaded and retaliated.

And he roared. He roared the battlecry which had earned him his name in battle. The primal scream wished to give death, and the humans faltered when they heard it. With a laugh and another battlecry, he pushed at them. Behind him, orcs and ogres were crashing into the failed human line.

Some humans tried to open the gates to escape, only to be greeted by more orc grunts and ogres. All routes of escape were blocked, and the slaughter began. The dead revived to fight at their side, bolstering their ranks, making the remaining Alliance troops break formation. 'Cowards! Stand and fight!' Hellscream thought wildly as he slashed at every enemy he could see.

Some tried to flee. They were cut down. Some surrendered. They were cut down.

Some begged for their lives. They were cut down. The Horde didn't take prisoners.

He reeked of human blood. He was damp with it. He had rarely felt so ALIVE!

But they fight was ending, the last Alliance people being put down. With that realization, sanity returned – reluctantly – in Hellscream's mind. He looked at the smashed walls, the battered parapets, and the corpses and blood everywhere. He grunted in satisfaction: this was a complete victory.

"This will gain us nothing." The leader of the Death Knights stated ominously. Hellscream glared at the thing: he hadn't seen it arrive. The bloodlust had dulled his senses, no doubt. "This is only a small fort. The humans won't relinquish their hold on Alterac just from that."

Hellscream shrugged. He couldn't really care less. "We're not here to get these humans their freedom. They made a deal with me, and they're supposed to honour it. They wanted us to destroy the two main fortresses in the region, and we just destroyed the second." He watched as the human flags – an upraised grey fist on a field of crimson was the design – were rounded up and used as tinder. Soon, the fort would be burned to the ground, and the Horde would be gone.

"What if they ask more?" The Death Knight wondered. "Humans always ask more. That is how they are."

"It wouldn't be very healthy of them. I honour my promises. And I promised myself that I'd cut any human who tried to 'ask more' open right away." He snarled softly.

"But that won't get us the arcane item we've come for." The Death Knight mused coldly, and reasonably. Hellscream hated these things. They were devoid of any bloodlust, of anything. They no longer felt the battlefield at all.

What bothered Hellscream even more was that the cursed thing was right. He couldn't afford to react too harshly. He was in enemy territory, and wouldn't be a match against a very large army.

He wasn't about to say so, of course. Still, it rankled not to be able to gain some merit from the act. Hellscream feared Ner'Zul, and so followed him. He also believed that the shaman would bring the Horde back from the mess Doomhammer and Gul'Dan had made. But he couldn't stand being ordered about by humans who couldn't free themselves with their own power.

He looked around. Most of the moaning had already been silenced by orc axes. But he saw two of his people dragging a human in shattered mail. The human was struggling feebly, obviously spent.

"Stop!" he ordered as he came forward. They looked at him a moment, then bowed. Reaching between the two, he yanked the human's head back by the hair, and forced the soldier to face him.

The youth – he must have been barely out of orclinghood – gazed at the blood-drenched Hellscream in horror and fear, but did not flinch. Instead, the emotion which seemed to dominate was anger. No, not anger. Rage. Unbending hatred. The human's eye wanted him, wished him, to die.

He liked those eyes. No wonder the little human had lasted so long: people with strong hate often made good survivors.

"Human." He growled, "You've survived all of this. You've seen it all. You know our strength." The human's hate only deepened. Oh, Hellscream liked this one.

"Because of that," he continued, "I'm going to let you go. Alive. To your people. What's the name of that clan or…nation… of yours?"

"Stromgarde!" the human said, defiantly, angrily. One of the grunts hit him to keep his manners straight. Hellscream nodded thoughtfully.

"Well, Stromgarde. Good. Go back there. Go to your army, go to your leaders, go to your Alliance! Tell them the Warsong Clan did this! Tell them that their war isn't won, and that Grom Hellscream will make them weep blood soon!"

"The Alliance'll destroy your filth one day!" the human said, and was hit again for his trouble.

"We'll see, won't we." He looked at the grunts. "Give him a dagger and some food, and throw him out." He then turned away from the hate-filled face.

The Death Knight had been looking at all of this in what could almost pass as curiosity. What, the spectre must be thinking, was the point in all of this? What could be gained by giving the humans a cause to go to war again? It was unreasonable. Nothing but the challenge of an orc possessed by bloodlust.

This was exactly what Hellscream wanted. Let the humans gather. Let them form their armies again. Let them come at him.

He would gleefully welcome them with his own Clan, and his own blades!

* * *

_Late Autumn 606, Sunshire, Azeroth_

It was stated with all of the strength and authority that a thirteen year old could muster. Given that Vedran Swiftblade was the son of the duchy's rulers, it gave him some weight. Moreover, he said it as loud as he could, so that no one could miss his meaning.

"Its NOT fair!" He declared, standing there in the middle of Swiftblade Castle's training ward. What frustrated him was the way the three knights present – Sir Holgar, Sir Manifred and Sir Grandfox – welcomed the noise: through complete neutrality. They calmly continued to play cards.

"And what isn't fair this time, lad?" Holgar, the eldest of the three, asked. Grey-haired and wiry, he had a long moustache and a short beard. A scar nearly ate part of his cheekbone - a relic from a past battle.

Vedran found himself a bit cut short by the calm question. He disliked it when Holgar asked him his reasons. The old knight was better than his parents at trapping him with his own words. But the stubborn will which had allowed Eira Fregar to survive being a madman's hostage and had made Aerth Swiftblade a renowned hero flowed in his veins too much.

"It's unfair that I am stuck here with Jasla and Rellen." He muttered. He found Jasla, his nine-year old sister, annoying at best. Rellen, of course, was too small to have an opinion on. Still, being in the castle rankled. "I am here, safe, while Father is off fighting in the war, and Mother's off with that black-haired lady!"

"And how is that bad?" Holgar mused. "Place is safe. You got good food, coins, and servants. Lots of lads and lasses'd want your place."

Vedran almost cursed. The three men couldn't understand. They'd fought in the war, they earned their reputation. How could they understand that the Vice-Duke of the Duchy of Fregar-Duraz wanted something more than a pretty castle and servants? They couldn't, of course. How could three common men understand him? He began to pace.

"The castle, the duchy… it isn't important to me." He grunted, his eyes downcast. "The city's too peaceful, too. Where are the orcs from Father's stories? He said that they attacked this place once!"

"That they did." Grandfox muttered, his voice low. "Let's hope they never come to our walls again." Vedran's incredulous manners must have shown, for the knight – big and sturdy, with flaming red hair – gave a grin. "Surprised I don't want to fight? Not all of us like fighting. Really, I fight only because of the Lord-General."

"That's right!" Manifred agreed, taking out a gourd "Most right! Here's to Lord Aerth Swiftblade, the best damned general there ever was!" He took a swig and belched, while the other two gave empathic nods.

"Great man, our Lord. The Lady, too." He gave Vedran a look the boy didn't like much. "You've got big shoes to fill, and you're not there yet."

Vedran bristled. It didn't seem to particularly impress the three men. Behind them, a servant passed and bowed.

"Young master, your meat is served." She said. The three knights chuckled at that. Vedran felt humiliated. He gestured for the servant to go away, and glared at the three men.

"You think I am not ready?" he said, hating the testy edge to his voice. "I've been practicing swordplay for nine years! My father knew nothing about it before he was two full years older than I am.

At that, the knights looked at him. They didn't really seem to take him more seriously. Rather, they seemed to be gauging him a bit, judging his worth quickly. Then Holgar spoke, his voice rather cynical.

"Lad, your father, a great man as I said, learned more in thirty days during the First War than you did in your nine years. You'd better learn how the world turns before you start spouting nonsense." The greying knight said. He sounded helpful rather than admonishing. It only infuriated the boy further.

"Who do you think you are?" he shouted, "Speaking to me like that. If Father heard you-!"

"He'd nod, laugh, and play cards with us." Manifred interjected, and all three men laughed.

He gritted his teeth. It wasn't like this with Vedran's father. Vedran had, during his short – so short! – stay in Aerth's camp, seen his father around people like Holgar. They always spoke to him respectfully, always catered to him. They showed him the respect due a noble.

'Maybe that's because they respected Father, no? He was their commander, and he was trusted.' An inner voice told him. And, indeed, the men at the camp at seemed ready to jump at any of Aerth Swiftblade's commands. Vedran wanted that kind of respect. 'And I should have it already! Father earned it through his efforts, but he had to! He wasn't born a noble. I was! I should have the respect right now, Light!'

"Then I'll go see father again! I'll join his army and –"

"Don't you start being dumb now!" Holgar said, and Vedran saw the man rise. Even out of armour, he was an imposing sight. Despite his age, only Vedran's father and Thorsen Klamfer, a former, scarred veteran who now owned an inn, could match the man in battle in Sunshire. Aerth Swiftblade had named the man Captain of the Garrison in no small part due to the man's prowess.

"Don't you start!" Holgar continued, pointing a finger, his face pinched in exasperation. "Going off to join Lord Swiftblade's army? Are you daft! What good would you be, aside from washing the mail?"

"My training…" Vedran huffed, but he was cut off by the knight's glare.

"To the Beyond with your training! The men we sent to Dreanor were the best we had. The best veterans. Each of them's faced the Horde a hundred times and survived! And you say you're going to join them? Lad, they'll laugh at you, then send you packing here – again!"

Vedran flinched. So did Manifred and Grandfox.

"Now, now, Sir Holgar." Grandfox mused, "No need to get so upset. It's just the lad's youth speaking. He doesn't understand. He'll learn in time."

"He better learn now." Holgar grunted. "Fool idea, joining a war when he's pampered. Wouldn't last three days as he is! And then, there was Lady Swiftblade."

This was the last straw in Vedran's mind. He stepped toward the knight, his face forced into an angry grimace. It was only when he stood closer that his reason returned. He saw the man's girth under the tunic; he saw the large sword strapped to his side. He knew, beyond all manner of doubts, that there was no way he could defeat the man. It would be as foolish as hoping to win a sparring match against his father.

"I will remember this, Sir Holgar." He vowed.

"I hope so, lad." came the even retort. "And, unless the Light guides me wrong, you'll thank me for the words one day. We live in a dangerous age. People have to earn respect through more than birth, unless you want to live in Stormwind. You'll see, you'll be thanking me."

"I refuse to believe that!" he retorted angrily, and turned away, leaving the courtyard with all the dignity he could still muster.

The halls were large and pristine, the work of dwarven and human hands having restored it, stashed portraits and tapestries, hidden by Vedran's grandfather, girding them. Here and there, he came upon new additions. A coat of arms there, a set of full plate, a long, battered blade here. Without knowing it, he came to walk through the hall where the portraits of the lords of Swiftblade Castle hung.

House Swiftblade owned the Duraz and Fregar lands, and was both respected and wealthy. But it was young, barely fifteen years all told. As such, only one portrait was hung. Vedran gazed at his father's face thoughtfully.

For all of his opinions about the differences between those of noble blood and those of common birth, he knew special commoners transcended that difference. His father had been just a clockmaker's son, Vedran had been told, and yet had risen to become a soldier who helped fight the green-skinned orcs back. And a lord who had King Varien Wrynn's ear.

Vedran had been raised with the knowledge that he would have to follow in his father's footsteps, and keep the family name as strong as it was presently. 'But how can I do that, Father? How can I, Mother? How do I win the place both of you have earned?' He thought.

It was then that the thought struck him.

"Of course!" he exclaimed, "How silly of me! I followed Father to his camp, but that was a foolish move! How can I gain anything if I stand in Father's shadow all the time? Father didn't become famous like that!"

He was filled with a giddy feeling. He knew what had to be done. Aerth Swiftblade had earned his place.

Vedran Swiftblade would earn his own.

One way, or another, Vedran was going to become a great hero, too!

* * *

_Early Winter 607, Bronzegate Ruins, Wildlands_

He wasn't certain if it was age preying on his body more than he thought, or because of his suspicions. Yet, Argal Grimfrost was certain of one thing: he knew that voice from somewhere.

The message had been given to one of his farthest-ranging orc scouts, who had quickly carried it over to the chieftain. The message had been brief and clear: one who wished to aid the Horde wished to meet the Chieftain of the Dire Fangs, and discuss. They could meet at the abandoned fortress of Bronzegate. He could bring two others with him.

He had taken Riakar and Kerak's advice on the matter, and had discussed it with the elders of Orc's Rest. In the end, he had gone to the old, ruined bastion with his two trusted advisor. There, he had met two rather strange and chilling individuals. He looked at them once more as they spoke, in the shattered room which had been, it seemed, the fortress' war room.

Both were cloaked, hoods and gloves and heaving clothes hiding all features. The one seated, obviously the leading figure, was slightly hunched, and seemed to follow to mannerisms of those humans who practiced the foul arts of the arcane without proper control. Yet the figure spoke with a raspy, female voice. It was that voice which bothered the old orc.

The other figure hadn't said one word for the entire proceedings. Dressed in grey, only its eyes were visible. Those were human eyes. Human eyes with no emotions whatsoever left in them. Two gleaming sword were strapped to the grey-clothed human. She – he assumed the bodyguard was female - stood next to the magic-user, arms folded, calm yet ready to spring like a panther.

Beyond it all, he disliked what he was hearing at that moment.

"An alliance?" He asked.

"Quite so. It would be to our benefit." Said the familiar voice. "You need power to protect your people. I need strength and manpower for my goals. We each can provide what the other needs.

Grimfrost looked at the other two orcs. Kerak was impassive, a wall of granite few would dare attempt to chip away or climb, lest death suddenly came on them. Riakar, however, was looking tense, staring at the black-garbed one with restraint. There was an edge of fear in the shaman's normally peaceful eyes.

"You talk of goals, and benefits. My goals are to rebuild the orc people and avoid conflict as we rebuild." he answered, "How would helping you benefit me in any way. I have no interest in fostering conflict in Dalaran at all."

"Not even to weaken the humans' alliance?" The voice replied smoothly.

'Yes, I've heard this voice before. But where?' he wondered, while pondering what had been said. With each day, it seemed that Orc's Rest was becoming more permanent. Houses were sturdier, the wall was reinforced, and more terrain was cleared. Seven winters had passed since he'd brought his Clan – no longer could Grimfrost see them as anything else – and it seemed that some of the old bloodlust was being drowned by a shaky hope.

His colony was too young to risk a conflict of any kind. Monsters, they could handle. But anything to do with humans or the more warlike orcs might plunge all the work and hope into chaos.

He shook his head. "I'm too old an orc to think we can weaken the humans enough with that. At best, it'll cause them an annoyance. At worst, they'll angrily search for us. I can't allow my people to be found. I won't take that risk."

"Strange to hear this from Argal Grimfrost, the best of Orgrim Doomhammer's leaders, the Warlord who sacked Grand Hamlet and Northshire Abbey."

He narrowed his eyes. "I was right. You do know me, don't you?" he grunted. Beside him, he felt Kerak give him a look. Riakar tensed further. The grey-cloaked figure seemed, for his or her part, to be a lifelike statue.

There was silence, broken only by the wind blowing through from outside, echoing down the shattered halls like the cries of ghosts. The hooded figure didn't move, nor did she say anything for a long moment. It seemed, to Grimfrost's mind, rather pensive. Then again, it might only have been his imagination.

"Does it matter?" the figure asked at length.

"It might." He mused, leaning forward. "I've made many enemies. If you are one of them, I have no reason to even consider helping you."

"And if I say that I am not your enemy?"

"Then I'm going to ask for proof. And then I'm going to need an explanation for bothering with Dalaran at all."

It certainly made no sense to him. Dalaran was small and, despite its many magic-users, not really a powerful member of the Alliance. It was surrounded by Gilneas to the west, Lordaeron to the East and North, and by the Great Sea in the South. Grimfrost also knew that very few orcs remained in that country. In short, going these was a grave mistake at best, suicide at worst.

"We have a plan in the works." The hooded figure stated calmly. "For that plan to work, Dalaran's magical powers must be ruined."

"And why would it be so necessary?"

"That is something I will gladly tell you… if you join us. We could use your talents as a warlord."

That last sentence angered him. It seemed that everyone wanted his talents to make war, while he was desperately trying to make peace, with himself and among his people. He understood where the queries came from, and appreciated them up to a point. But to be solicited that way was becoming increasingly… grating on his nerves.

'Besides,' he thought to himself, 'I can't trust this one. Not yet, at least.'

"I led my people away from Blackrock Spire to prevent casualties among them."

"Some say you fled."

"They may say what they like about me. I know, as a warlord, that the battle was over. The humans were in a frenzy, had taken our people completely by surprise. We were breaking, and no act of mine could have changed that." That was what he told himself, at any rate. 'The part of me which doesn't wonder if, perhaps, I didn't act to punish Orgrimm's callous handling of innocent lives.'

"Enough playing with words." Kerak grunted, looking upset by the turn of event." You want our people, and what can you give us in exchange. We have magic, soldiers, food. We're almost completely self-sufficient. What can you offer us?"

The discussion hinged on that question, Grimfrost realized. If there was no satisfactory answer, the meeting would end then and there. He couldn't notice that the former champion's declaration had any effect, however.

The hood seemed to rise ever so slightly, and the old orc was certain that eyes were steadily fixed on him. The black-gloved hands clenched slightly, the first sign of nervousness that he had been able to detect so far.

"Information."

This stumped him, and it must have shown. Of all the things he had thought that this one could say, she found one of the things he hadn't thought of.

"Information?" he finally asked. "About what?"

"Positions of internment camps. Guards. Situation. Allies. Enemies. Everything to one day free your people when you are ready."

This caused all three orcs to look at each other in surprise. It was tempting, the other two's eyes told him, but was that strange person truly saying the truth? There was no way to know it for certain.

Still…

"I will thing about it… if you tell me who you are." He mused, "If not, I leave."

The figure sighed. It seemed resigned to something. "Very well, Argal Grimfrost. I can't readily refuse the greatest of the Horde's Warlords, can I?"

And, with that word, the figure pulled its hood aside, and all was revealed. Grimfrost could only gape as he recognized who it was.

"You…! But then…" he choked. It was surreal, but it made sense.

Oh yes. It made terrible sense. And it also told him that he could never, ever, accept whatever the offer made was.

* * *

The Land Bridges

The Land Bridges were discovered by the humans of Arathor thousands of years ago, and were used extensively, to trade with the southern nation of Khaz Modan. It also served as the passageway which took the first, pre-Azerothian settlers to the untamed forests of Elwynn, where Stormwind and Northshire were founded.

During the Second War, the entire southern continent came under the Horde's control, with the few remaining humans enslaved or in hiding, and the Dwarves having retreated to their underground fortresses. It was at the land bridges that the Alliance and the Horde fought for many years, spilling the blood of tens of thousands in attack and counter-attacks.

Engines of war, powerful magics, and devastating melee took their toll, and the bridges nearly collapsed when the combined armies of the Alliance pushed the Horde back. It was soon decided to abandon the Land Bridges, and the dwarves were solicited by the Alliance Council to build two large, genuine bridges over the expanse, a sign of peace and resolve. Today, the Thandol Span is almost complete, a boon to many, as the Land Bridges are no longer a place of trade, but one tainted with the torment of the dead.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I am EXTREMELY sorry about all of this! I didn't abandon the story. It was just that, well, the last two months have been the hardest I've had for a long while, and it was hard to keep up. Now, however, things have settled down, and everything's all good, so I should be back to normal schedule from now on. I deeply thank everyone for their patience with me!

-Jeremy


	12. Chapter Eleven: Secrets and Questions

**Chapter Eleven: Secrets and Questions**

_Early winter 607, Drek'Thur, Dreanor_

If there was one thing that Aerth Swiftblade had learned over the years, it was that, although actions had undeniable results, caution was often the difference between victory and defeat. Despite the success the Alliance had enjoyed so far, he remained concerned.

He studied the map that he, along with the other leaders of the expedition, had been porting over for the last hour, sitting as they were, surrounded by aides, reports from scouts, and battle tactics. It all created a clutter which almost seemed to drown the noise from the Drek'Thur facilities working endlessly to prep the ships sent painstakingly through the portal. That alone, he was sure, was worthy of song.

The map showed what they already knew. The Alliance forces had stormed through the Dark Portal, seized it, and had managed to take advantage of the element of surprise to take the small port of Drek'Thur. The area around the Portal had become their main base, and Drek'Thur their secondary one. But the advance hadn't stopped there.

Despite a strong attack by Horde forces following the port's capture, they had managed to scatter the orcs west, through what orcs called Tragundak Pass. There, they had met a strong defence and had been forced to fall back, building two makeshift fortresses to hold the pass.

"This really cannot help but look like a stalemate." Illadan Eltrass, always dressed in his fine elven armour, never seemingly tired or dirty, pointed out calmly. Swiftblade, who had slept in his armour more than he cared to and looked anything but polished, sighed.

"That much is certain, my friend. A stalemate. One we cannot afford." He looked around. There was Turalyon, looking solemn as he always did these days. Lord Khadgar, the archmage worn down by what seemed to be incessant worries. Alleria Windrunner, the revered scouting commander, whose calm always slightly betrayed her simmering hate and bitterness. Kurdran, who led the aerial assault forces most fiercely.

With Danath, who was stationed at the pass, they were the greatest Alliance leaders this side of the Dark Portal. Able soldiers all, Swiftblade knew. And yet, when he saw the last member of the war council, the Lord-General barely checked his personal disappointment.

It wasn't that Marcus Jonathan was a bad soldier, or that he wasn't competent as a military commander. He was. Swiftblade had helped train the younger man for command, and had been rather impressed. But Jonathan lacked the experience needed for the sheer scope of this campaign. Until the Dragon Army's new commander, a dwarven general, arrived, it was weakened.

All because of a man who had, even if understandably, lost his faith and spirit at the worst possible moment.

"At the very least, we are not being pushed." Jonathan ventured. Alleria gave him a grim stare at this point.

"That's a small comfort, General Jonathan." She replied acidly, her eyes narrowed. Beside her, Kurdran raised an eyebrow and muttered into his beard. "My scouts have had a hard time gathering intelligence, but what we know is that the orcs are massing in that large fortress, the one they called Hellfire. We're not as badly outnumbered as during the Second War, but we don't have the same resources, either."

"Peace, milady." Turalyon said sternly. "We have to think positively. We all know the situation on the military side." His eyes shifted to the frowning, troubled archmage. "Lord Khadgar, you said you have managed to gain information from our prisoners?"

The archmage straightened. Strained he might be, yet his gaze was a penetrating and powerful as ever.

"I have. To put it simply, seven major clans hold sway. Other certainly exist, but not in this part of the world. There is the Shadowmoon Clan, which leads the Thunderlord, Warsong and Shattered hand Clans as well as our old foe, the Bleeding Hollow Clan, in a rather stifling alliance of convenience. They are the ones against us, without a doubt."

"You talked about seven clans, wizard." The dwarf said gruffly. "You only named five. What about the other two, eh?"

"Quite right, sir Kurdran. From what my people have been able to glean, as well as some rational thinking, I can safely say this: Bonechewer and Laughing Skull – those are the clans – are barely under Ner'Zul's control. They dislike him. They chafe under him. And, as safely as this can be said, they are possibly waiting for a weakness to break away from his grasp."

"Orc politics." Alleria rasped scornfully. Khadgar looked at her, yet spoke as if her tone had lacked aggression.

"Politics. Politics which might work to our advantage. The clans here are nowhere near as strong or as organized as those we faced for so long back home. If two of them break away, it might be enough to destabilize them completely, at least for a time."

"Then we strike hard and give them a bloody face!" Kurdran grinned. "I'll go along with that!"

"But for that, we need a victory to weaken them." Jonathan mused.

"Leave that to Lord-General Swiftblade and I." Turalyon said, with a hint of amusement. "It appears Lord Swiftblade has not lost his touch. I can assure you that, if we are successful, the Horde will feel the blow we will inflict."

Eyes looked at Swiftblade, who shrugged with a smirk. No matter the circumstances, to prepare for a battle was always something he could feel instinctively. The battle plan had flowed from the information he had read, from his experiences, and from his intuition.

An independent battle. He found he couldn't wait. A feeling which both exhilarated and disturbed him. Bloodshed, it seemed, had become part of him.

"If we need something to weaken the Horde, we can probably do so shortly." Turalyon stated firmly. "There is another element, a dangerous one, which we must somehow eliminate."

Everyone looked at each other, eyes set, mouth tight, tense from thinking about that creature. Yet it had to be named, the enemy who had once led the black dragons in the Second War, the one the red dragons called the Fallen Aspect.

"Deathwing, eh?" Kurdran said, and there was a strange light in his eyes. Swiftblade almost shivered. Deathwing, after all, had been a danger to the Alliance, but had been a scourge of the Wildhammer dwarves. Even as the Alliance was triumphing over the Horde at Blackrock Spire, the colossal dragon had brought his dragonflight against the Eyrie Peaks.

A massacre. Half of the Wildhammer Clan had perished. No Griphon Rider would ever forget. All would attempt to gain revenge.

Khadgar looked at Kurdran, then at Swiftblade and nodded wearily. He had seen it too. So, it seemed, had Turalyon. It was a bloodlust they could use, however, and so they let it pass.

"There might be a small way to do this, as well." The archmage mused. "But for that, I'll something more. I'll need to return to Dalaran."

'Good', Swiftblade thought, 'And stop whatever's happening there, wizard, why don't you?'

"What about the orcs?' Jonathan asked.

"Indeed." Eltrass added with interest. He scratched his slender chin. "What could cause enough turmoil that two clans might want to secede from the Horde, or at least, oppose Shadowmoon's hegemony."

"Why, my good friend, we will do so by striking at the heart of the Bleeding Hollow Clan, the revered heroes of the Horde, the surviving warrior elite they have left. That will strike a blow to their morale, won't it. Our task is quite clear."

Swiftblade pointed to a spot southwest of Drek'Thur, past what the orcs called the Devouring Sea.

"My forces will wipe Auchindoun off the face of Dreanor."

* * *

_Early Winter 607, Fortress Shadowmoon, Dreanor_

The grounds rumbled with the thunder of many feet, the air was shaken by the growls and cries of thousands of voices. At the feet of Fortress Shadowmoon's massive walls of stone and timber, a great army was amassed. Amassed from the lands under Ner'Zul's thumb.

Thirty thousands from Shadowmoon, eighteen thousands from Laughing Skull, twelve thousand from Thunderlord and Warsong, and eight thousand from Bonechewer. Sixty-eight thousand orcs, ogres, with small units of those wild trolls, and a score of five dozen black dragons from Deathwing. It was an enormous force, with the intent of destroying the pinkskins located near the portal.

To Ner'Zul's anger, however, it was incomplete. He had asked twelve thousand from the Bleeding Hollow clan. With them, and with the forces around Hellfire, he'd be able to finally be rid of the obstacles in his way.

However, the answer he'd just received was anything but satisfactory.

"Deadeye refused me? Refused my demand?" He asked the large ogre-magi, Dentarg, with icy calm. The calm before the eruption. Dentarg knew the tone, of course, and took the tone to mollify it.

"He told me that the pinkskins were gon' to attack Auchindoun soon, and that he wanted to be ready for them."

"Ah, Kilrogg Deadeye and his delusions again!" he grimaced.

"Why do you insist on calling them delusions?" A voice, sounding like what might be a pinksking. Arrogant, commanding. Powerful. He looked towards what appeared to be a human. Clothed in what were certainly fine human garb, with a crafted blade buckled on a emerald-studded belt, the image the shaman's eyes gave him was that of a being he gladly – and easily – could have ripped apart with his magic.

But the shaman, for all of his anger, no matter how much of a slave the bloodlust sometimes made him, was strong in the arcane arts. Even his foolhardy apprentice, Gul'Dan, hadn't been as superior to his teacher as he'd taught. Ner'Zul also retained enough of his old training by the tribe shamans of old to feel the natural flows of non-arcane energies, weak as they were.

He would have known that the seemingly helpless being was powerful enough to defeat Ner'Zul's magic, was powerful enough to easily overpower Dentarg in physical strength. He could feel, somewhat, the faint outline of an enormous form. That of a dragon. The largest of all of the black dragons.

He refrained from shivering. He wouldn't show any fear, not even to this one. Although he now knew better than to confront the dragon for now. It was too soon. He wasn't ready. When he was, however, the winged monstrosity would regret ever being so blasted arrogant!

"Even if this Alliance you speak of moves, it will take a while before they reach Auchindoun." Ner'Zul mused. "And they'd have to go through Hellfire Fortress to get to it. They'd be exposed." He shook his head.

"Lord Deathwing." He mused, choking on the word 'Lord' as if it was a spoiled piece of meat, "I learned enough from the pinkskins to know they can't be taken lightly. They wouldn't make a dangerous movement like that, with their numbers."

Deathwing's human form had been reading a human book. He had told the shaman that it gave insight on the human Clan – or was it another name?- Lordaeron, about its history and leaders. When Ner'Zul spoke, Deathwing cocked his head in the way humans seemed to have to signify mild amusement, and closed it.

"Chieftain," Deathwing said this, as he always did, with faint, infuriating sarcasm, "You HAVE learned much. But your mastery of magic, as admirable as it is for your people, is far stronger than your grasp of warfare. What you have just said, I can only surmise that the Alliance leaders have already guessed it and dismissed it. No, they might just attack Auchindoun."

"Then you might enlighten me as to how?"

"There is the devouring sea. An attack by a fleet, troops swiftly disembarking, attacking at the best moment, and then retreating by the sea."

"BAH!" Ner'Zul snorted in scorn. "Even if the humans have flyers as well, the Devouring Sea is aptly named. That's why Drek'Thur is small and has only small ships. We can only hug the coast. There's no way they can traverse dangerous water they had!"

"They have seamen from Kul Tiras, naval people from Quel'Thalas. I'm certain of that. With these, its very possible."

"A maritime campaign has never been done on Dreanor." Ner'Zul pointed out. "The waters aren't like your world's, obviously."

The dragon in pinkskin form seemed to grow irritated at that. Dentarg tensed as the human's eyes flared red for a moment. Ner'Zul also brought up defensive and offensive spells to protect himself. Before anything could happen, however, the eyes regained their normalcy, and Deathwing gave off a small chuckle.

"And once again, shortsightedness strikes the Horde. Your people, in truth, were inept on the water. They won many battles on land, but they were CRUSHED by human navy from Kul Tiras. Believe what you will. But let me give you a warning: Auchindoun will fall. And then, you will either have to gain my complete aid or see your plans go to ruin!"

Ner'Zul glared at him. Deathwing grinned.

"Yes, your plans. Your real plans, I mean." His tone lowered slightly. "I have felt him each time I sneaked in and out of the portal with my magic. He is waiting. Waiting for the oath-breaker."

It was as if the world itself had turned into ice. Ner'Zul wished, desperately wished, to call the transformed dragon that he was a liar, yet he couldn't. The shaman couldn't, because he was aware of the same thing. That, just beyond the barrier of the world, Kil'Jeaden waited, with eternal patience, for a way to get in.

He wouldn't allow it! Ner'Zul hadn't survived so long by being a fool! If the demon lord waited by the portal, he would open many others, and escape with a chosen few. The Horde, his people, nothing of that meant anything anymore. It was nothing, nothing! Nothing, if he considered what could well be in store for him, should he ever fall into the Legion's grasp.

The Legion, after all, never forgot. Never forgave.

Ner'Zul wasn't able to keep himself from shivering, before he forced himself to regain control. He looked at the smug dragon in hatred. Yes, that one would pay, no matter what happened. No one made a fool of him twice, and lived to boast of it. Not even powerful creatures like that one!

"I'll leave you to that, Chieftain of the Shadowmoon Clan. Your next actions, orc, will decide many things." The dragon slid in with a slight hiss no pinkskin must be able to make. And then, with a gesture, he vanished, certainly to the rocky isle he now used as his own land.

"Chieftain?" Dentarg asked hesitantly. Ner'Zul snarled and struck the wall.

"Prepare the army. We'll all march on Auchindoun!" The shaman growled. When the ogre-magi hesitated, he raised his voice further. "YOU HEARD ME! SEND ALL THE TROOPS WE HAVE TO AUCHINDOUN!"

He glared down at the mass of warriors. Take him for a fool, did he? Never. If those humans wanted to crush Auchindoun, let them. Let them fight Deadeye. Small loss, that ungrateful PEON! And then, when the humans would celebrate, when their tired soldiers would relax after the long battle, he'd strike?

A naval strike? A bold move?

It would mean nothing, if the humans died after that. The remnants of the Bleeding Hollow would follow him, and the so-called Alliance would be weakened. His plan would go forth without a problem.

There was no problem. None! No matter what a flying creature told.

* * *

_Early Winter 607, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas_

Darajan Silentgreen made his way through Silvermoon without undue haste. Dressed in his finest deep green, silver and gold garments, the little bits of cold that the elven magics couldn't keep at bay had made him wear a slender, forest green, gold-embroided cloak. Here, he didn't think of wearing his archmagus cloak to signify his position. Here, it was well-known.

Silvermoon was home, really, the place where he'd been born over nine centuries beforehand. From that perch, he'd seen the foundation of the Church of the Holy Light, the formation of the so-called modern human nations, the time of the Pact of Stormwind, up to the recent First and Second Wars. Through it all, Silvermoon had remained an unchanged oasis. Even the Horde sack hadn't really made it change.

Quel'Thalas. Ancient. Wondrous. Pristine.

'Utterly short-sighted', he thought in disgust.

The histories of Silvermoon began over six millennia ago. In those days, humans were nothing but savages, the trolls were scattered and the Dwarves locked in internal strife. The exiles had the opportunity to forge an empire over the entire continent. Yet, they didn't. They waited, growing with exaggerated care, clinging to the ancient laws, until it was the upstart humans who forged the empire, and who now ruled the continent.

"Well, Lord Darajan! Well met, well met indeed!" An unctuous, cultured voice sounded. Near him, garbed in red and gold garments of particular magnificence, was Prince Kael'Thas Sunstrider, one of the most powerful members of the Council of Silvermoon, a powerful magi of Dalaran.

'And an arrogant child,' he finished sourly, before smiling gently. "Well met to you as well, good Prince Kael'Thas. What finds you here in Silvermoon, Your Highness?"

The younger elf shrugged, his face calm and smug, as it always seemed to be. "Ah, nothing of great importance. The Queen intends to call the Council very soon, and I thought that I should see the old sights before the tedious medium began."

Silentgreen noted the way that Sunstrider talked of being summoned by the Queen of Quel'Thalas. The Sunstriders had, after all, once led the exiles to their home, but had lost their power to the Pureglade family, which had ruled for fifty-six centuries. Even now, crippled Anesterian Sunstrider fancied himself High King of Silvermoon, while it was Queen Pureglade who held all the power.

But Silentgreen wasn't interested in such political foolishness, established long before his birth. He had other plans that didn't include simply walking about the realm, like the foolish prince did. In his inner pocket, was something which could easily mean his death, and a mission which went against all High Elf laws.

"Is that so?" he mused, as if the matter interested him. "And is our dear Queen Fenna still intent on her present course?"

The prince nodded sombrely. "I fear so, Lord Darajan. Ever since her husband nearly died, she has lost her trust in the Alliance. It is only a matter of time we no longer belong as a part of it."

'As if being part of the Alliance or not would change anything, you young fool.' He mused angrily. 'The Alliance was built by humans, for humans. Perhaps the dwarves can fit in, but our society was doomed never to be able to do so. We cannot change. We are a stagnant people.'

He would never say this out loud. What he said was. "I would wish to discuss more of that later, Your Highness, if you do not mind. I have pressing matters to attend to at the Sunwell."

Kael'Thas raised an eyebrow at that, but refrained from saying more. There was, after all, nothing surprising in an archmage visiting the source of high elven magic. With pleasant words and a promise to meet in the evening, the two lords separated and went their own way.

High elves did not actually crowd the area around the Sunwell Grove. In fact, few approached the sunwell except the strongest of archmages. Although the magical energies within seemed to sate a part of the elven psyche, it was well-known that those very energies could be destructive if one was in direct contact with them. Thus, the grove was defended by powerful golems, built from silver and imbued with the strongest magic.

They were designed to protect the Sunwell's waters. Silentgreen, however, didn't fear them as he nodded to the guards at the outskirts of the Grove. As soon as he was certain no one was within earshot, he took out a scroll, on which were words his grandfather had long ago written. Words to stop the Sunwell Golems if they ever went insane from the mystical energies.

He spoke the complicated words easily, as his family had had the duty of protecting the grove for three thousand years already, and they had thus been drilled into Silentgreen's mind early in his life. This allowed him to go forth and reach the Sunwell without the Golems stirring.

It was as he had first viewed it, barely out of childhood. A basin of living wood and silver, in which was a golden liquid filled with immense mystical energies, the center of all of Quel'Thalas. The waves of powerful magic washed over the archmage, making him shiver both in fear and exhilaration.

From his inner pocket, he drew a small vial. It was bluish white, thick and crystalline – the material used by the elves who had used waters from their old lands to create the Sunwell.

It had taken great research and risk, to create even this tiny container. He had time for nothing more. Gingerly, knowing full well that, if he was ever discovered, his death would be swift, he dipped the vial in the well quickly. He had put a glove, and so the water didn't touch him directly, but the instant was enough to make the magic in his body surge to a dangerous level.

Silentgreen clutched his chest a moment, even as he staggered away from the sunwell. The vial now seemed to burn with an inner flame, even as the elf corked and sealed it with trembling fingers. He gasped as his strength returned, and sat on the beautiful green grass.

Someone might come. He wasn't the only elf with enough power to approach the Sunwell, and his discovery, with a flaring vial in hand, would be his doom. Still trembling, the magi wiped the vial dry and pocketed it. He then took off his gloves, laid them on a stone, and promptly destroyed them with magic.

'It's done.' He mused as he forced himself to his feet and walked away on weakened limbs, brushing himself off. 'It had better be worth it.'

He stopped near a tree when he felt something contacting his mind. Forcing calm to wash over his soul, he opened his magical and mental guards to allow the psychic connection.

"_I have felt something in your powers for a moment. Is it the Sunwell?"_ A sensual, yet cold, voice asked.

He closed his eyes. "_Yes, Lady Shadowbound. The water is with me. Although, as I thought, I could not take much of it."_

"_A little is all we need. Well done, Darajan. The Council will be pleased. Our move for Dalaran may now step past the amusements._" The tone turned cold, _"Return as soon as you can."_ The link faded to nothing.

Silentgreen took a deep breath at that. For all of the scorn he had for his own culture, for the irritation he had for human advances, he felt like he had crossed a line he should never have crossed. He may just have doomed himself. And, with him, how many others as well?

"Too late for that," he rasped, the toll his brush with the Sunwell had given him still wearing him down. "Too late for such regrets. The road is taken. I must follow it, for good or ill."

The city of Dalaran, after all, was only the first step. Only a very large stride.

With a grim smile, Silentgreen said the word which broke the sleep the Sunwell Golems had been put under, and made his way out of the Grove.

He really felt like he needed to drink and rest. Perhaps he would truly visit the foolish Kael'Thas after all.

* * *

_Early Winter 607, Southern Counties, Alterac_

Grom Hellscream growled in satisfaction. The humans seemed both elated and unhappy. Elated, because the Horde had managed to weaken the grip that Stromgarde and Lordaeron had on their central counties. Unhappy, because the people of Alterac owed the breathing room to the very Horde which had led them to their doom in the first place.

Hellscream was a warrior, not a shaman or warlock. Thinking deep thoughts wasn't his forte. He was happier with an axe or blade in hand, wading into the battlefield, than in speculating on people.

Still, he wasn't a fool. The chieftain certainly didn't miss the irony of the situation.

His group was made up of the best grunts he could muster. He had left his most powerful underling in control of the main troops, to ready it to depart. Those with him, the twenty orcs who had come under the trees – were his best where it came down to fighting. If the humans wanted to double-cross or kill him, these twenty would certainly show the fools their mistake in underestimating the Warsong Clan.

"What's keeping them?" One of the grunts muttered angrily. "The pinkskins ought to be here by now!"

"Weak things're making us wait! I say we kill'em when they arrive!" Another snapped. Many growled their support to the idea.

Hellscream wasn't one of them. He struck his Dreanei-steel blade into the ground, rending it with a small booming sound. That quieted them. He then turned to face them. He was angry as well, tired as well. But his plans were different than what the grunts were muttering about, and he had no intention of letting them go over his control. He glared at the one who had suggested the killing with all of his power.

"I'm the chieftain of the Warsong Clan! I decide when we kill, I decide when we raid, I decide everything!" He snapped. "I want you to fight, you fight! I want you to run, you run! I decide! If you're unhappy with that, challenge me right now and be done with it! Or just keep quiet!" His hand hovered near his blade. If need be, the other orc would become an example. He relished the opportunity.

But the orc didn't want to die yet, it seemed. To Hellscream's chagrin, the orc didn't even bother looking the chieftain in the eye long. The grunt bowed his head in submission, while the others subsided. 'Too bad,' Hellscream sneered, although a part of him was satisfied that they took his commands so readily.

"I don't like the wait, either, brothers." He grunted, "I want some blood spilled too. But I'm going for something more interesting. I want the humans to see what's happening to them, and that they're powerless without us helping them! Lets wait. I'm sure it won't be long."

He was right, it seemed. A little while passed slowly, and then there came movements from deep within the woods. Many of the grunts tense, but Hellscream only grinned. He knew the sounds of those steps. Metal-clad, plodding. The signs that humans were coming.

True enough, a group of humans, dressed in their heavy metal armour, but not mounted on their beasts, came towards them, many clutching weapons, none having drawn them. The one in front of them was different than the human Hellscream had sealed the deal with. He was dressed in a more intricate tabard. Like all of the others, it had seen better days.

The humans stopped twenty feet from the orcs, each group regarding the other tensely. Finally, the human leader raised a hand in reluctant salute, and Hellscream gave the barest nod in response.

"You are Grom Hellscream?" When Hellscream nodded, the human went on. "I am Aliden Perenolde, son of King Aiden Perenole of Alterac. I thank you for the help you gave my country."

"You have something we want. I don't care who you are as long as you have that." Ah, Hellscream was thankful that the death knights had cast a spell to understand the humans. He simply wouldn't be able to speak that ugly tongue of theirs. "We did what you ask. Now, give us what you want! If you don't…" The threat was clear. The grunts shuffled in eagerness. The humans nearly drew their weapons, but the one named Aliden stopped them.

"Straight to the point, I see." The human said with a befuddled sound to his voice, as Hellscream couldn't see the face well under the large metal helm. "Very well, then. The bargain was struck. We will hold to our end of it."

That was, in itself, a surprise of sorts. Hellscream had learned enough from humans to know that the people of Alterac – or, at least, its leaders – were treacherous, even by human standards. He was all expecting to have to force the humans into revealing the place that the Book of Medhiv was hidden in.

It was very disappointing.

One of the humans came forward at his leader's command. He was – reluctantly – holding something in a sack, and seemed to want nothing but to get rid of it. Hellscream stretched his hand out, still keeping watch, still expecting a fight or a trick, and took hold of the back, taking it quickly. The human stepped back quickly, as if relieved.

Hellscream could understand why, he found. Something about holding this book chilled him. There was power in there. Tremendous power. Still, he opened it, taking a look. Within was a black-bound book of uncertain age. He found that it matched the description he'd been given.

'Finally,' Hellscream thought wildly, barely keeping his happiness in check. 'Finally, our rebirth is at hand! With Ner'Zul, our clans will finally destroy this world, and lay waste to many others!'

"We have kept our end, as you can see." The human said carefully.

"Good." Hellscream answered. But the human wasn't finished. How these humans liked to talk!

"Now, if you don't mind it, might your people be on your way? It would be ominous if my people learned we received help for orcs."

The humans and orcs stiffened, and Hellscream glared a moment. But only a moment. He then waved for his people to follow him. With great reluctance, and some amazement, they did.

"Chieftain! Why are we letting…"

"Silence. I'll tell you why in a bit." He growled, hard, to break any chance to continue the discussion. They subsided, but there were many black glares thrown his way. A part of him was worried on how much the Horde culture now relied on bloodshed. Only… what had come before seemed so… far away.

He finally stopped when his group was far from the humans. He gave them a good look and found that his suspicions were founded: they were angry. At the humans for being so arrogant, and him for not bloodying them in answer.

"There's no need for us to kill the humans. You see, brothers, they're already dead." He said, and instantly caught their attention. "What we did, what they think they made us accomplish, it will soon be nothing."

"How chieftain?" One asked. "We destroyed the human fortresses. They have nothing here! The humans have what they wanted."

Hellscream smiled. It seemed that the humans had been too arrogant. They hadn't seen the sole human that he had made certain would reach the kingdom of Stromgarde. The Death Knights had seen him safely to the human main citadel of Redgates. Soon, Stromgarde and Lordaeron would know what happened.

Their vengeance – and Hellscream's revenge for the humiliation wrought upon him – would be swift and final.

"Brothers, sometimes we don't need to kill someone with our hands to feel the refreshing taste of victory." He mused. He then looked at the ominous sack he was holding in his hands. His victory was complete. The Horde would soon rise once more.

What was a few stupid, self-satisfied, duped humans compared to that? To Hellscream, the comparison didn't even exist.

* * *

_Early Winter 607, Westfall Border, Azeroth_

Frankly, Onyxia was starting to feel a certain giddiness. She wasn't used to such emotions, having learned to keep these to herself and only show the world what she wanted it to see. She had learned that much from her sire and master, Deathwing. Unlike that hotblooded fool of a brother of hers.

She knew that Deathwing had planned several events, including in the northern lands of Lordaeron. That suited her perfectly. Her sire could take control of the northern lands, if he so wished. She would be content with being the one to rule Azeroth and its southern fiefs.

For a while, at least.

Onyxia had decided that this little element in her scheme needed her to be in her human form all the time, something she found a bit stifling. There was no helping it, however. She could hardly be seen transforming by her companion, after all. So much work wasted then!

As a human, however, Onyxia had called upon her human wealth, and so they had gone towards Westfall in a great coach, with several guards from Sunshire, and had brought enough baggage with her to allow them a pleasant journey.

"I wonder, Lady Prestor…" Eira mused, her mouth pursed in thinking. "This carriage, this retinue. If we are to come to Westfall, isn't it too flagrant?"

"Flagrant?" She answered the noblewoman in her best voice. "My dear, that is the very purpose of this visit. We intend to rattle the Defias, to show them that we are not afraid of them, that we know that they are about and that we oppose them."

"Truth. But when you said that we should surprise them, I was not in the mind of something so… so daring." Onyxia knew that the word the other woman wanted to say was 'foolish'. In a sense, she was right. In another, she was wrong. It all depended on the perspective, she supposed. She looked out the window a moment, and saw that they were rolling off the bridge leading to Westfall.

"Ah, here we leave the soothing, forested lands of Elwynn to penetrate the golden tiles of Westfall." She mused, gesturing out the window. "Tell me, Lady Swiftblade. What do you see when you look outside?"

"I see fields. Farmlands. Cattle." Eira mused, frowning. "Miles upon miles of cold, freshly cultivated land. Nothing very surprising, might I say, in the beginning of winter. After all, Westfall is the Kingdom's main grain…" she frowned as she continued studying the landscape. Onyxia grinned inwardly. Yes, this one could be manipulated, yet was no fool for many things. The perfect pawn for her next act.

"You looked upon the cold fields, Duchesse. What do you see underneath the obvious. What has stung your eyes?"

"The people are not as many as there should be. This region… I travelled through it many times. With my family, when I was young. I then travelled it with my husband, three years ago. The destruction had been set back, the rebuilding proceeding apace." She frowned. "Yet, now, the rebuilding seems to have come to naught."

Onyxia leaned back from the window and looked at the brown-haired noblewoman with quiet satisfaction. "Excellent perception. That'd exactly that. Setbacks. No, no mere setbacks. Less lands are now settled than two years ago. The colonists are diminishing in number."

"How can this be."

"There are few orc bands in this area, and monsters are relatively few. Since no diseases have found daylight yet, only one element remains open to us."

Eira shook her head in disbelief. "The Brotherhood cannot possibly be as powerful as that!"

Onyxia leaned forward. The coach protected them from the cold, as did their heavy clothes, but she was certain that the other women was feeling a chill nonetheless. She sighed for effect, careful not to put to much theatrical effect into it.

"You live in a nearly-rebuilt, prosperous city." She explained, "In Sunshire, the orcs and the monsters are kept away by your husband's well-trained guards and knights, as are bandits for the most part."

"Are you saying that I am blind to other people's suffering?" Eira said, sounding clearly outraged.

'Of course you are blind, you fool human girl.' The powerful, transformed dragon sneered inwardly. 'You were born into nobility, raised in wealth. That husband of yours has done his best to shield you in the exile years, and you returned to a city in rebuilding, safe with the wealth your father judiciously stashed away.'

"I am only saying that you might have missed something. It is easy to miss such an occurrence when one'd city is wealthy and well-fed." She said soothingly. "Still, I must continue what I was saying. Yes, my good Lady Swiftblade. I am quite afraid that the Defias Brotherhood has gained much power in the region."

"Why does the King and the House of Nobles not stop them? We have a duty to Azeroth as a whole, do we not?" Eira snapped, her eyes flaring. Yes, Onyxia decided, this one has the spirit I wish for.

"I, myself, think that what we did to the people who rebuilt Stormwind might have been wrong." She lied. In fact, it had been one of her happier moments, successfully manipulating opinion while giving the appearances of being manipulated herself. "Everything stems from that. However, I fear it will soon become more than that."

"Halt! In the name of the King and Azeroth!" A voice called out. Onyxia raised her raven-haired head and looked out the window. Outside, it was rather grey, rendering rhe area, with its fields and farms – many abandoned and in disrepair – even more desolate than it would seem in broad daylight.

She spotted the band coming their way. A group of five men, all mounted and wearing the armour and tabard of both Moonbrooke's and the Royal Army's. They seemed, at first look, more bemused than anything else. After all, they were looking at a fine closed carriage, which was guarded by men wearing the crest of Sunshire's garrison.

"What is the trouble?" she asked. At that moment, she heard the door on the other side open and, before she could do anything, Eira had stepped outside. 'And the girl was the one worrying about being 'flagrant', the dragon mused in slight irritation and much amusement.

"I am Eira Fregar Swiftblade, Lady of Sunshire and Duchesse of the Duchy of Sunshire. Why, good soldiers, is my carriage being stopped?" she asked, her voice echoing clearly. The patrol bowed at her introduction, and the oldest one came forth. When his spoke, his voice was filled with careful politeness.

"I beg your forgiveness, milady." The man said, "We've the duty of patrolling the region, and question all who come through Llane Bridge about their business."

"I understand, sir. And I thank you for your efforts." The noblewoman mused simply, inclining her head for a moment. "As I said, I and a friend are travelling, our destination being Moonbrooke, where we hope to stay a tenday. I assure you that our intents are just and honest."

"Aye, House Swiftblade is well-known, it is. I fought under Lord-General Swiftblade in the war, and I won't be the one to stop his Lady from going her way. You may pass, milady. Only, take your care. Moonbrooke, I say, is no Sunshire." He said, bowing. "Light be with you, milady."

"And with you, sir." She answered. The patrol departed, horses quickly making their way east, probably to patrol the region.

The human form named Katrana Prestor grinned. The name Swiftblade meant power among those of the soldiery. It was an asset that she hadn't overlooked. She quickly decided that, when they reached Moonbrooke, she would make full use of the other woman's reputation.

What Eira had not seemingly noticed, but which the dragon had, was the look two of the soldiers gave the carriage when it had departed. The Defias Brotherhood, it seemed, was even more powerful than she had first though.

It would be amusing to bring them into her plan, another pawn for her to use.

Outside, a few bits of snow flickered down on the cold, earthen ground.

* * *

_Winter 607, Alliance Portal Base, Dreanor_

He had thought about it often, ever since the battle to defend Drek'Thur had been turned to something dangerously close to failing by the man's unreliable command. It had churned in his mind, even though he was supposed to think of other things, like defending the dark portal and preventing orcish messengers from going back and forth – something which was proving distressingly hard to do.

It was at the Dark Portal that Marcus Jonathan had seen a mounted Rellon Minvare. The former Lord-General had four mounted knights alongside him. Jonathan was certain that, for all of their politeness and appearances as an escort, the four were guards. Minvare's star had fallen, and High General Turalyon had stripped him of command.

Still, Jonathan had served under the man, and would see him off as such.

"I hope that you have a safe journey, General." He had said, and the older man, his eyes tired, taut and unable to hide a certain bitterness, had given a smirk in response.

"General? Please, General Jonathan. No need to make a fool of me more than that. I'm no longer a general, or anything at all." He sighed with underlying vehemence.

"Milord, I am not mocking you. Your rank was not abolished. Allow me to see you off in the manner I think you deserve." He answered promptly.

A bitter chuckle answered him.

"You're still so young. Oh, so much to learn, really! But, I suppose that I thank you!" He gave another sigh, and that one was filled more with sadness than venom. "Give Lord-General Swiftblade my regards. And my regrets. I pray, tell him I appreciated what he tried to do for me."

"I will deliver the message myself, Lord Minvare." He had said earnestly. "I swear it!"

The man's face had taken a troubled, brooding look at that sentence. After a moment, he had shaken his grey-haired head, as if something unimportant or unwanted had flitted through his mind.

"Oaths and promises." He muttered darkly, spearing Jonathan with a flat look. "Make none of them whimsically, or else… you'll regret it one day."

Before Jonathan could find anything to say to that, could calm himself after the dark look had washed over him, Minvare had wheeled his horse about and, along with his escort, had traversed into the swirling energies of the Dark Portal.

"How can someone who fought in the First War, helped to win the Second War, become such an utter traitor?" One of Jonathan's aides had wondered out loud, with a slightly scornful air.

Jonathan had stifled the remark with a scathing word and stern look, yet he found that he did agree with what the men were muttering amongst themselves. How had Minvare become a traitor to this important war effort, one he'd helped for many years?

Jonathan couldn't bring himself to completely think Minvare a traitor. He knew that there was a dangerous enmity between High General Turalyon and Minvare, and that even Lords Swiftblade and Eltrass had stopped supporting the man. But The younger General couldn't believe that one of the greatest human commanders of the last century had become such a fallen man for no tangible reason. One simply did not change so much in so little time lightly. That was all there was to it.

With those doubts, he decided to carry the message to Aerth Swiftblade and ask him about it. Perhaps he would only get a cold shoulder for his trouble, but it was a risk he felt he had to take. He needed to know why he needed to be the interim replacement to Minvare.

Swiftblade had been put in charge of the task force which would destroy Auchindoun. A force of twelve thousand land troops, as well as fifty vessels – built or magically transported – would serve in the strike. As such, the man was busy with preparing the necessary materiel in the Dark Portal base.

When Minvare found him, using his rank to enter Swiftblade's war tent, he found him standing, studying maps, calling out names, giving orders which were precise and brooked no compromise. The man's efficiency hadn't diminished. Aerth Swiftblade had been the maverick, while Rellon Minvare had been the traditional, during the Second War. Working together, the two had been nearly undefeated in battle.

Now, however, the differences were glaring. Swiftblade had proven he was still an exceptional commander, worthy of the highest respect, while Minvare was seen as a failure, and was scorned.

He managed, through the ordering of the battle, to get a word or two in. Swiftblade, upon learning it was Minvare's last message, promptly asked the assembled captains and aides to go carry out their given orders at once. The last orders would be given in two hours. The men bowed and left, each head filled with tasks, as the two army leaders began to talk.

Jonathan relayed the message, and the subsequent conversation. Swiftblade looked resigned and saddened more than angry.

"Fool." He said, and he seemed be musing as in a dream. "You couldn't forgive, my friend. I understand, but still… this isn't what she'd want…"

"Sir?" He asked, and Swiftblade focused his attention on him, "If I am not being presumptuous, may I ask what happened? This… shouldn't be this … this way."

The grey-haired man who had many times outwitted larger forces gave him a wry look. "So you say. Well, you're right, you're right. That fool was as good as I was. Maybe better. Although there's no way to make certain. We were never in opposition."

He walked through the war tent, circling the table, lost in thought, and finally seemed to come to a decision. He gave Jonathan a look as piercing as the one Minvare had received, only the latter lacked the malice the former had had.

"You want to know what happened?" he asked almost crossly. "You want to know why Minvare and Turalyon can't stand each other? Why that fool is seemingly becoming a traitor?" At Jonathan's nod, Swiftblade indicated a chair. "Sit down, then. It might take a little while to tell it all."

Jonathan took the offered seat, and was surprised when the older man dragged one and sat right in front of his, leaning forward intently. After a moment, the man leaned back, as if his thoughts were beginning to flow, his face growing calmer, although losing none of its sadness.

"Tell me, my good friend. Do you remember the Civil War? Do you remember the Grand Compact?"

"Why, of course milord. I fought in the Second War. I could I not know?" Silphord Duraz, betraying the Alliance, had nearly caused it to fall apart. Only the swift interventions wrought by High General Lothar, aided by Turalyon and Swiftblade, and Minvare's efforts at the front, had saved it. Next to Doomhammer's near-victory over Whitefort, it had been the most dangerous time for the Alliance of Lordaeron.

It seemed to satisfy Swiftblade up to a point. "In those days, there were fifteen armies, all led by one General. Of them, five betrayed us." He sighed. "Two died during the struggle: Duraz himself – may the Beyond torture him forever! – and Zeor Tarrak. But the other three survived."

"I heard of that as well, milord. The three traitors were taken to a military trial and summarily executed." He mused.

A raised eyebrow. "So, that's how the nobles and such have decided to phrase it? Interesting. Well, there was a trial, of course. And it was a military one, for I was there. But summarily executed… what foolishness."

The general's face became earnest, gripping. His eyes seemed to be burning with an inner light.

"No, Marcus Jonathan, let me tell you something. Something which happened a few years ago, just after the Second War ended. Let me tell you about the trial and its repercussions."

A sad sigh. "Let me tell you about the crux of what made Minvare fall. About a brave, misguided female general named Jennala Ironhorse, and about the men who condemned her…"

* * *

Westfall

Long the Kingdom of Azeroth's breadbasket, the Westfall Region was ravaged by the Horde. Its defences were shattered, and its villages were quickly put to the torch, their residents fled, slain or, worse still, kept as slaves. The small city of Moonbrooke, the region's capital, was the only place where resistance was fierce. It resisted three major attacks.

On the fourth, however, its walls were sundered, and the people within were, without exception, killed in an often gruesome fashion. The Horde would use the wild grain there to feed the troops over the years of occupation.

When the Alliance finally liberated the area, orcs and monsters were numerous, leading King Varien to put priority to resettling Elwynn's major cities and strongholds. When that was secure, only then did he send forces to reclaim Westfall. Through fierce fighting, the expedition cleared out many remnants of the Horde's, and reclaimed Moonbrooke and most of Westfall.

Yet, the colonization has not gone well in recent years. Harried by monsters, the people of the region have to contend with an enemy from within. The Defias Brotherhood's influence in Moonbrooke is mounting, it is said, and they seem to control the region's underworld thoroughly. It has left many to wonder what can be done about Westfall, and why King Varien and his army aren't doing it yet.


	13. Chapter Twelve: Justice and Infamy

**Chapter Twelve: Justice and Infamy**

_Spring 601, Havenport, Kul Tiras_

Aerth Swiftblade wondered why he was here. His place was elsewhere entirely, doing something else entirely. He was needed in the field, commanding the break-up of the last large pockets of Horde resistance in Azerothian lands. He was needed in Sunshire, where his wife was just beginning the painstaking reconstruction of what would be, forevermore, their home.

All sorts of things required his attention. All of them were rather dreary things in some ways. Yet none of them could come close to what he was going to do today.

Today, as Lord-General of the Alliance of Lordaeron, he was going to judge a comrade-in-arms – and a friend – for the crime of high treason. It was a little too much for the one who had been raised with the intent of building clocks for rich merchants, eccentrics and nobles.

He had told Eira that much before he left. She had found little in the way of comfort for him.

"Whatever you say, my beloved husband," she had said "I know that you will make the right decision."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of, Eira." He had answered.

He, fortunately, hadn't had to travel much. From ruined Sunshire to Stormwind, where he had been teleported through magic – a troubling experience at best – to Havenport, where the cases of the three 'Rebel Generals' would be heard. He understood why Kul Tiras had been chosen. Protected by its great fleets, the tirassians had been touched very little by the war – even the damage on the city was long repaired.

It was also one place where the Horde had no agent, no forces, the few land forces which ever tried having been hunted long ago.

He had dressed for the occasion, as was asked of him. His armour – a ceremonial one offered by the Alliance Patrons – shown like bright silver, while a spotless purple cloak trimmed in silver with the lion of Azeroth depicted was around his shoulders, held through a silver clasp. With his sword at his side in a sheath scavenged from hidden Fregar caches, he looked the image of a noble lord, his rank evident for everyone to see.

And people knew who he was. People whispered his name, the common soldiers and knights alike bowed in respect, servants hurried to get him the best horse they had. All things he had dreamed of having as a youth. Now, he had them all, and more, and felt no bit of joy or pride from it.

'They're respectfully bowing to someone who has sent tens of thousands to their deaths.' He thought grimly. 'How many widows and orphans have I created over the years, giving orders from the safety of my command post?'

He knew, part of him at least, that he wasn't being fully honest with himself, nor was he totally fair. But knowing that fact didn't prevent him from wondering why people bothered so much about things people should never, in his opinion, be proud of.

This latest task, it seemed, only added to the bitterness.

He rode with an escort through some of Havenport's streets, which often reeked as all large cities did, passing peasants and merchants, guards making a round, and the odd carriage rolling along. One could almost forget that one of the most destructive wars seen in centuries was barely ending. Humanity, it seems, adjusted quickly.

He saw his destination – the Kul Tiras' knighthood's headquarters, a small keep of sturdy and proud strength, the banners of Kul Tiras fluttering on its parapets. He was brought in with the same respect he was now used to, and dismounted. Only then did he notice a face he knew well.

"Well, as I live and breathe, Lord-General Illadan Eltrass of Quel'Thalas himself." He said, grinning despite himself. "You look, unchanged, as usual."

The elf nodded, amusement warring with weariness on his handsome, eternal face. "I would say as do you, my friend. However, you humans age so fast. I will settle on saying that you have deteriorated less than expected."

"I'll take that as the compliment I feel it is!" He chuckled, making a fake bow. Then, noticing that the soldiers and knights were gawking, he took hold of the elf lord and led the slighter man away. "Come, we have time before this whole business begins. There has to be some wine around here! Let us drink to our reunion!"

"Lady Eira does not let you drink as much as you'd like, does she?" the elf quipped.

"Oh, and Lady Sylvanas lets YOU?" he joked, but his face quickly lost all of its gaiety. "A reunion… a sad one. Illadan… is he here?"

Eltrass nodded. He understood what lay under the question, of course. "He is. He is not… sociable…"

"Would you be?" He asked dryly.

"No… if this was Sylvanas… no, certainly not."

"Don't talk as if I am not capable of holding my emotions in. I intend to see this through." Said the man in question as he came through a door. "Aerth. You are late. Its good to see you, my friend."

Lord-Generals. Four of them had been named by the Alliance to lead a quarter of the Alliance force which ultimately broke the Horde. Of the four, Aerth knew, Rellon Minvare was the most logical, the one who often went with the facts and manipulated them to come up with a victory. He had been an excellent commander during the entire war, and had won the friendship of Khaz Modan, for he had been the one to plan its liberation. Of the four, he had been the fox.

As far as Swiftblade knew, the war would have been lost without his many successful holding actions at the Land Bridges. Which was why he wished the man could be spared this particular suffering.

"This isn't going to be amusing to remember, lads." Swiftblade sighed. With these men, he could afford to do without the unnecessary pomp. "Why are we the ones who have to do something like that?"

"Because, from what I remember, we are in charge of the army. And because our rulers do not want to get their hands dirty." Eltrass answered. The elf had a large trace of bitterness himself. Unsurprising – elves, living so long, appreciated life to a level humans found hard to comprehend.

'Damnable nobles.' He thought, then was reminded of Eira, a noble-born, "Most of them.' He amended. He then shot Minvare a look. He was being silent. In this particular case, it was a bad sign.

"How's Jennala, Rellon?" He asked when he was certain no soldier was about to come and interrupt them. No trouble there – those who were nearby only gawked from afar.

"Do you care?" Minvare shot back, with barely-veiled venom. It staggered Swiftblade and Eltrass for a moment, but the youngest of the four Lord-Generals rallied with a firm look of his own.

"You know better than to even ask that. Because I'm here for this task, doesn't mean she doesn't matter to me, my friend!" He snapped. Minvare stiffened, opened his mouth, obviously thought better of it, and sighed.

"Forgive me, you're right. She is… doing as well as can be expected. I… I don't think… Light, Aerth, Illadan, part of me wants to… I can't believe they're making me judge her!" He slammed his right, mailed hand into the stone wall. Neither the human nor the elf said anything, only looking on in sympathy as the usually unflappable general regained his composure.

They made their way to meet with their leader, Turalyon. They passed soldiers, servants, and peasants, all of which met them with signs of respect and, in the case of younger people, admiration. Swiftblade, looking at some of these youths, was reminded of himself, looking at his own heroes.

'I wonder.' He mused grimly 'Did the men I looked up to in those days feel as filthy as I do?'

He found he absolutely did not want to find out. Some thoughts were, after all, better buried.

_Spring 601, Havenport, Kul Tiras_

This was a day that Aerth Swiftblade was not likely to forget. Not that he would ever forget the proceedings themselves – court-martials were hateful affairs in general. Yet this moment overcame all others.

"Bring in the accused." Turalyon intoned sternly.

The room had often been used for such things amongst the knights. The raised dais, one on each side of the room, could fit nearly one hundred person. It was filled with lesser officers – commanders, captains and such – who wanted to see their greatest leaders dispensing justice.

These leaders were seated in elaborate chairs on a raised dais of their own, in front of which a single, stone seat was crafted. The Seat of Judgement, it was called. Those who sat there had committed crimes against the military. Even though the room was well-illuminated by magical globes and torches, Swiftblade felt the darkness press when the accused in question entered.

Jennala Ironhorse was accused, but her rank allowed her some accommodations. She came in in full – weaponless - armoured regalia, small in stature next to the two guards who escorted her, and yet dominating them clearly through sheer willpower. Her blonde hair was cut short, her eyes were clear and determined.

'If she feels afraid, she's not about to show it to us.' Swiftblade thought, and he saw that more than one of the attending officers nodded in respectful admiration. She came to stand before the four men who would judge her.

"Jennala Ironhorse, daughter of Benius Ironhorse, Lady of Caracon Castle, General of the Alliance of Lordaeron." Tyralyon intoned, and silence was at once complete. Although he was perhaps not Lothar, the paladin was High General. To speak at the same time he did was unthinkable. "You have read the charges against you?"

"I have, High General." came the reply.

"You are then fully aware of the portents?"

"Yes, High General. I am fully aware of them."

The paladin who had led the Alliance to a bloody victory at Blackrock Spire nodded, He had certainly expected nothing less. He motioned to the stone chair. "General Ironhorse, be seated."

She bowed, and as she turned Swiftblade spied it. There was this small thing, this fleeting look between Minvare and Ironhorse which he could not deny in seeing. It was the look of sadness and growing despair only true lovers about to be torn apart could give each other. More than ever, the youngest of the Lord-Generals wished to be back fighting at the Dark Portal rather than doing what he was doing.

She sat with dignity then, her gaze never losing its strength. It might have made some uneasy. Imagine, after all, a woman being as strong-willed as a man! Impossible. Swiftblade had long lost such illusions about so-called female inferiority, yet he also felt like continuing would be too hard.

But Turalyon was of another character. The Paladin never so much blinked. Sternness, it seemed, was what made the powerful man.

"General Ironhorse." He began, "We here all know and appreciate your battle prowess. You held the Horde at several key points at the land bridges, and your overall dedication cannot be doubted."

"Thank you, milord."

"The same, sad to say, cannot be said of your loyalty." He then stated. Despite his unchanging tone, Swiftblade felt steel in the words. Minvare stiffened – he had heard too, it seemed. "Jennala Ironhorse, you stand accused of betraying your oath to the Alliance when your joined the Grand Compact, which worked to undermine the only force strong enough to stop the Horde."

"How do you plead to the accusation, General?" Swiftblade mused. He saw Turalyon give him a look, yet he stayed his course. He had to ask this question, if nothing else. It was too important that he knew.

She looked at him squarely. Swiftblade had seen monsters and death face him and had learned to weather that. Yet it was all he could do not to look away now.

"I will not lie. I pledged myself to Sylphord Duraz." She said, clearly.

Mutterings amongst the knights and veterans present. Even the guards shifted in the room. Jennala might have plead that she had been abused, that she had been misled. However, she had just admitted to having willingly committed treason against the nations of the Alliance.

Minvare groan and closed his eyes. Eltrass sighed sadly. Turalyon looked on with a granite face. Swiftblade held the treasonous general's face for a moment, before breaking eye contact. Frustration was welling within him, yet he could not show it. No here, no in front of these people. Such was his position.

Illadan Eltrass, however, was a High Elf. And the elves of Quel'Thalas had always been, it seemed to many humans, uncaring of what humans thought of them.

"Jennala, why?" The elf lord asked, "Sylphord Duraz's coup was madness. It nearly broke the Alliance at such a crucial time, destabilizing our unity…"

"If I may answer, Lord-General." Was the calm reply, "I look upon the Alliance and do not see unity. I see bickering, I see political manoeuvring. This will not last. We have been separate for too long. The Pact of Stormwind held us back from open warfare for two centuries, but it was bound to fail. And then what?"

"You're saying you did it for the future, Jennala?" Minvare interjected tonelessly, "You…you fool. Duraz never thought of the future. He only thought of himself, of his goals and ambitions, and he nearly doomed us all."

All of that was true, Swiftblade knew. His family had been held hostage along with many others during Whitefort's siege, and trusted comrades had turned and forced him into battle. Madness, all of it. He felt no shame in having taken part in crushing such a dissident group.

And yet, a voice kept telling him, what of now? The Horde was broken, most of the territories it conquered retaken. The allied nations had proven superior, or simply luckier. Even now, in the midst of the rebuilding, dissentions were beginning to show. The elves and the people of Gilneas were already aloof, and their support was waning. Arguments were straining the relationship between Lordaeron and Stromgarde. And Dalaran was beginning to remove itself for unknown reasons.

Jennala was right. The Alliance would break. With no common enemy to fight, it would cease to exist.

"Lord Lothar – the Light allow him rest – did not think it would hold forever, General Ironhorse." Turalyon stated before the woman could respond to her loved one's comment. "Your desires and ideals notwithstanding, your actions helped this debacle, and you must be punished accordingly."

She gave Minvare a glance, and there was such sadness in it that Swiftblade quickly shifted his gaze, and he heard the shuffling of many feet, the creaking of many armoured bodies. She then calmed herself and nodded with quiet dignity.

"I understand."

"Good." Turalyon coughed and took a breath – the first trace of hesitation yet seen in the man. "General Ironhorse, you have admitted to high treason before the Alliance Army's military commanders. Your punishment will be set in two days by these four generals. Guards, take her away."

The woman left as dignified as ever. Most were now openly muttering in admiration. High treason certainly meant death. For one to take such a fact so well, one had to be made of stern stuff indeed, especially a female. Such was how many certainly thought.

Minvare left the room quickly, not even looking at the others. Looking at Illadan, Swiftblade nodded. Now was not a good time for the man to be totally left alone. Who knew what he might do?

Burying his own thoughts, his own turmoil, the human joined the elf and went in pursuit of his troubled friend, as the room exploded in frantic conversation.

_Spring 601, Havenport, Kul Tiras_

Azeroth was rebuilding. The Alliance, although wounded by the war and dissention, reigned supreme and had hopes of ushering a new age, much like that of the Pact of Stormwind's, when humans, elves and dwarves lived in relative tranquility.

Illadan Eltrass had helped in ushering this new era. He knew it and felt he could take pride in the fact that he had convinced his brethren to lend aid to the human cause, as humans had lent aid to the elves in ages past. He was proud, despite his people's bitterness at pristine Quel'Thalas' burned woods and shattered villages, despite some strains in his relationship with his beloved Sylvanas.

Yet, all the accomplishments meant little next to the powerlessness the elf lord felt as he and two friends reflected upon the fate of one who had erred in ignorance rather than malice.

"I…" Rellon Minvare swallowed. "I can't do it. I cannot. I'm sorry, but… if I do, my heart dies." That such a heartfelt statement came from the formerly calm human general did not surprise Eltrass. He had seen it coming for a long time now.

They had adjourned the meeting after Turalyon and they had questioned Jennala Ironhorse for the last time, and were now together in one of the keep's rooms. Given the expensive furnishings, the thick rugs and delicate furniture – some of them imported from his homeland, the elf found – it was a room used for high-ranking officers. A mess, a dining room large enough for at least ten.

But Swiftblade had ordered the guards out with a snap, and, after seeing Minvare's face, had gone to snap further orders that no one save High General Turalyon and King Proudmoore themselves could be allowed to enter, for any reason, until he gave orders that said otherwise. He had been walking back to Eltrass, who was seated in front of the disturbed human, when Minvare lamented.

"Rellon…" Swiftblade sighed, "Even if you say this, it isn't like we can help her. Not now."

"Still, why is High General Turalyon acting in this way?" Eltrass frowned. "His harshness bordered on cruelty."

Swiftblade shook his head. "I wouldn't go as far as to say it was cruelty, my friend."

"She didn't deserve to be treated like this." Minvare suddenly hissed. "Like she was some sort of… filthy troll or some sort of monster of the same kind!"

"Now, Rellon, that's not how he was acting, and you should know it by now!" Swiftblade said swiftly, moving between the elf and the distraught human. "Turalyon was always one who followed the rules. He is more knight than priest in his paladinhood. I'd say, too much of a knight and too little of a priest. He sees the world in definite shades. To him, Jennala betrayed us, and that is that!"

"She served the Alliance faithfully for years, though." Eltrass pointed out. Although he did not feel the wrenching despair his human friend did, he also felt that the woman had been treated injustly. "And the Kingdom of Stromgarde for years beforehand."

"Trust me in this, Illadan, I know." Swiftblade answered. "I worked with her during the war. People credit me with destroying the orcs at Dun Modr, but I managed only due to Jennala's aid and scouting information. And I devised many strategies with her. I know her worth, and I know the way she's treated is wrong."

"And yet, you are going to acquiesce to the execution." Eltrass mused. He saw Minvare start and give Swiftblade a shocked look. The latter man simply pressed his lips together and sat down. It did not stop Minvare from pressing the issue.

"Aerth?" He asked.

"Yes." He grunted at last. "The Holy Light forgive me, but yes. I will say 'aye' to the execution."

Eltrass nodded. It made sense. The man had looked far too uncomfortable around Minvare for it to be otherwise. There was silence, only broken by the dimmed noise of the waves of the sea, and the din of life in Kul Tiras' prosperous capital city.

The outburst came as no surprise to Illadan and, from his look, none to Swiftblade either. Minvare's hand snapped forth and grabbed Swiftblade by his cloak, forcing him forward. Their eyes met squarely.

"After all that, you'll let her die." He hissed. Swiftblade grabbed the man's arm firmly. He seemed, from what the elf could tell, torn between conflicting emotions. That, too, was unsurprising to the elven lord.

"Don't say it like I do that out of hatred. I'm not. And don't even try to say I'll like standing by and letting Jennala die." He warned. "I won't. Not at all. But I cannot – I will not – take what I feel into consideration. The facts are facts. She turned against the Alliance. She saw what she was doing, and she turned against the other traitors. All of that speak for her. But she did betray us."

"I…yes…she did…but…" Minvare ground his teeth. "I can't just watch her… like this. I stood when the Horde attacked more times than I care to count. I was there at Dun Alagaz, at Grim Batol, at Blackrock Spire, and at the Portal. Light, I've seen more blood, hatred and death than most." He then banged his free mailed fist on the table.

"What if it was Eira, Aerth? Could you watch her die like some mongrel?" he shifted a piercing gaze to Eltrass, his dark eyes alight with something the elf did not quite like. "What if it was Sylvanas, Illadan?"

Aerth shook his arm free and stood up, glaring down at the other man, and Eltrass half-stood himself to prevent the two men from fighting if it came down to that. The younger of the two humans, however, calmed at once, his angry eyes softening, showing nothing but frustration.

"Of course not. I couldn't see her die." He grunted, turning away, and staring murderously at an innocent-looking portrait on a wall. "I couldn't, Rellon. I understand, I do understand. But I cannot help you." He lifted his armoured arms upward. "We are the Lord-Generals of the Alliance of Lordaeron! That means, it seems, that sometimes we need to be heartless, and cruel, to uphold the laws. Even if we damn ourselves."

There was silence again. The tension in the room seemed to abate, although they all probably looked anything but calm. Eltrass was thinking furiously. The comment about Sylvanas had struck a nerve, he could not deny it. Moreover, he found human laws to be especially harsh. Amongst the elves, a traitor was banished, never to set foot in Quel'Thalas. Even now, despite her circumstances, Sylvanas' sister Alleria could not see the magnificent Silvermoon.

Could the elf really condemn someone to death, something his elven heritage abhorred. Even if it was, as Swiftblade had pointed out, his duty?

He couldn't be certain of the answer. It tore at him.

"What will be the sentence, if we decide to carry it out?" He mused. "Forgive me, but I never took much care of those details of human law."

Swiftblade simply contemplated the wall still, his grave face flickering in the candlelight. It was Minvare who answered, his voice forced and hushed.

"She was a general and she brought us victories. She'll be killed by poison, and her body buried quietly. Her name and rank and deeds will then be sealed away, as if she had never existed." The last part of the sentence was choked, bitter.

The elf shook his head, brushing aside his blonde hair. He took noticed of his two comrades. Minvare looked old now, wrinkled and grey, and ever the younger Swiftblade was beginning to show signs of aging. Humans, with their lives measured in decades, had to live with guilt, as did elves. But how long would they live with it? Thirty, forty, perhaps fifty years at the most. Eltrass was five centuries old, still young by elven standards. He had a thousand years of life to live, at least.

Could he let such fundamental betrayal of his people's way churn for so long?

It was a hard thought.

"I cannot say what I will vote. But, friends, remember this: at the very least, she will die with some dignity." He said.

It was a weak argument. He could see it from the flashing of Minvare's eyes, and from Swiftblade's tightened jaw.

_Spring 601, Havenport, Kul Tiras_

"This is insanity, Turalyon! I won't stand for it!"

"I understand how you feel, Lord Minvare, but in this case…"

"Curse you and this case, Paladin!"

Swiftblade moved to stop Minvare, but his stare was reserved for the stone-faced High General. He respected the man for his religious devotion and his belief in the Alliance and in the Silver Hand. But whereas Uther Lightbringer tempered his ideals with compassion, the short-haired man seemed incapable of doing it. All was done for the general good, and according to the laws of the realm.

Was it efficient? Absolutely. Was it correct? For all of his oaths to King Varien and the laws of his kingdom, Aerth Swiftblade wasn't certain.

What he was certain of, however, was that he found the sentence that Turalyon had decided upon a blatant disregard of understanding.

"General, please explain yourself." He stated, and weathered the commanding stare he received easily. Swiftblade knew his own worth did not put him below this man. "Why have you decided upon this?"

"As High General, it is within my rights to decide what is the sentence to be, Lord Swiftblade."

"Indeed." It was Eltrass who spoke up then, his elven face showing its age for the first time: more than battle, this philosophical and moral conundrum was trying his elven sensibilities. He shook his head, and closed his eyes. "However, if you do not explain yourself, then I will stand against your decision."

"I am against no matter what he will say!' Minvare snapped, his eyes showing rage, hatred and anguished boiling in a horrendous mix. "He wants to strip away her dignity, Aerth!" He disengaged himself. "A public execution…she deserves better! She deserves to die like the good Alliance soldier she was!"

"You forget, Lord Minvare." Turalyon said. "You think of her as an Alliance soldier. She is not. She is a traitor to the Alliance, and part of the Grand Compact. Her sentence is justified."

That was just it, Swiftblade found. In many logical ways, the sentence WAS justified. Certainly, such a punishment would send a clear message to those seeking to betray the Alliance: your reputation will not save you. The general in him – the cold man who had moved thousands of troops across many battlefields – agreed that it was a great deterrent.

The knight and – most importantly – the man was not so certain of that. He had seen too many things to think that a violent way would solve all problems.

Hadn't he married above his station for the sake of youthful love? Hadn't he become a soldier to better follow the compassionate justice which held sway in the Kingdom of Azeroth at its height? How could he stand with such a decision?

And, still, how could he not?

"There are times, my friend, when we must temper ourselves." He mused at last, forcing Minvare to sit. Eltrass took a wine bottle, and took out a mug, which he began to fill. Swiftblade vaguely noted that the wine was a particularly strong tirassian port, and wondered if the elf wanted the distraught man as drunk as can be.

"There are times when we must look into our own heart, and make a decision according to that." He continued. "Jennala is guilty. I wish to the Holy Light that it wasn't so, but it is. But I believe we should reserve her the dignity of her rank. Let us not be monsters."

Turalyon gave them all a look, and then began to walk towards the room's balcony, Swiftblade looked back at Eltrass and Minvare. The latter was busy gulping down the strong wine mechanically, and the former only nodded once. The man which the soldiers called The Invincible General went to his superior.

Turalyon was looking downward, at the courtyard far below, where many soldiers and knights were going on about their daily chores. He pointed down and away. "Tell me what you see, Lord Swiftblade."

"I fail to see the point in doing that."

"Humour me."

Swiftblade came to stand at the balcony as well, and looked out. Before him sprawled Havenport. Its immense docks, clogged with ships from many nations, were milling with traffic. Paved roads stretched away from the docks, winding through markets, beyond the houses of the common folk, to the storied artisan and merchant houses, to the mansions of the wealthy and the noble. At the top of that stood the traditional, gilded castle which had housed the ruling Proudmoores for centuries.

"I see a very prosperous city, the center of Kul Tiras and one of the greatest cities in all the Alliance. I see a people little touched by the Second War."

"Praise the Light for that!" Turalyon said with such fervour that Swiftblade gave him a look. The High General was, to his surprise, smiling. "Kul Tiras was little touched by the Second War. Yes, it lose many soldiers, and many families today grieve sons, brothers and fathers. However, its lands are rebuilt, and its wounds are healing. Why is that?"

"Because the Alliance Fleet did its duty well." Swiftblade mused. He had a feeling that Turalyon was telling him something, but he wasn't quite certain what.

The paladin nodded at that. "They did. And admirably so. Even when it was difficult, even when grief might come, they did their duties to the best of their ability. And so must we."

Swiftblade was suddenly grasped, and found himself face to face with the man, who looked at him with clear, determined eyes.

"The Horde has been broken, but we are weakened greatly as well. To prevent the Alliance from becoming ineffectual, we must show a strong front. A united front, and one sending a strong message. General Ironhorse's execution method is the best way to do that."

Swiftblade shook himself out of Turalyon's grasp. He was furious. What made him truly furious was that he understood what the man meant. He knew there was something there which was both for the best, and good for the future of their weakened nations. It only made him that much more furious.

"I cannot believe," he growled, "that I have just seen the day where a Knight of the Silver Hand, formed by His Eminence the Archbishop Faol himself, would speak that way about a life."

"And no one is as dismayed about it as I find myself, Lord Swiftblade!" Turalyon replied, "I hoped the Light and my brethren will forgive me for this, yet my duty as High General must come first. If I must be firm like Lord Lothar was, then I shall make the necessary decisions."

"The Light may damn us for this." Swiftblade mused sadly, gazing out at the old, thriving city. "And yet, Lord Turalyon, I must admit that I see what you mean all too well. The Horde is still dangerous, and my country is barely beginning to rebuild. It needs the shield that a unified Alliance gives, at least for a time."

It was the sad truth, right there before him. Azeroth was weak without the Alliance. Stormwind was being rebuilt, most holdings were still in shambles. He thought that it would take at least a decade before the realm was fully ready to stand on its own again. One life, compared to that, was insignificant. One person's dignity, and a few men's self-respect.

Swiftblade knew that he had to make a decision, and made it.

"Lord Turalyon… she is guilty, but she might curse us for this." He mused.

"No, General. She will not. If she is as intelligent a soldier as I think she is, I think she knows that this will come to pass." The paladin shook his head. "If there is a curse, it will come from within our own heart, I fear.

"Is that a way to assuage one's conscience?" Swiftblade said bitterly. Turalyon did not answer.

The two men made their way back inside, leaving the filth and glory of the city they had helped save.

_Late Spring 601, Havenport, Kul Tiras _

The gallows were built in middle of the keep's courtyard.

Usually, such executions of officers who had betrayed or otherwise abandoned their oaths were made with the keep's gates closed, and a few officers and soldiers in quiet attendance. Such was not the case today, however.

Today, the keep's main balcony was filled. Three people sat on wooden chairs, and were given the highest respect. The one in the center, looking severe and regal in his green and gold attire, the Mariner's Crown on his brow, was Daelin Proudmoore, with his last remaining son, Tandred, on his right, and his daughter, Jaina, on his left.

Seated around him in less elaborate chairs were the four generals who controlled most of the Alliance's military might. All of them were arrayed in their best – and least practical – armour, with their purple cloak and numerous decorations, purple-plumed helm on plated lap.

Swiftblade worried about Minvare, as he had always done recently, but also worried about the event for his own conscience. Although this was treason, and treason demanded punishment, was this the way to go about it? Turalyon's argument had been sound, but had it truly been right?

'Too late for doubts now, Aerth.' He thought bitterly. 'Much too late.'

He gave Minvare a look. "Rellon, for whatever its worth to you, I'm sorry." He said. Minvare gave a small nod. Switblade wasn't certain he really heard anything at all.

The walls were filled with soldiers and knights, while the grounds were filled with people of all types. For this execution was to be public, a message of the Alliance's resolve to restore order in the land.

The keep's inner gate opened, and Jennala Ironhorse appeared, surrounded by a grim honor guard made up of veteran paladins. They seemed, to a man, to find the whole task distasteful. Jennala, however, was as impressive as always.

Although her hands were bound behind her back, and she was dressed in simple clothes – her armour, as well as her ranks, honours and titles had been stripped from her – the condemned woman stood proud, her face sad but solemn, as she walked with her head high and steady. If she felt terror – and she must – she hid it perfectly.

Swiftblade shook his head, heard Minvare's choke but didn't have the heart to look at the man. Beside him, his elven face tight with dismay, Eltrass leaned towards him.

"By the Light," He breathed, "What are we doing?"

"Justice." Turalyon snapped, "We may not like it, but the laws are there for reasons we must respect, or society would collapse."

Swiftblade frowned. He wished he was as certain as the High General was. Minvare said nothing, his brooding silence being something which unnerved them all. He had not spoken a word since the night the decision had been made.

"Yes," he nodded, "It is the law." That was all he could say to that.

Jennala came to the gallows and ascended the wooden stairs steadily. She then stood, ritually, before the noble leaders on the main and lesser balconies. Most of the prominent houses in Kul Tiras were watching.

'Vultures waiting for a feast, that is all we nobles are today.' The common-born general mused to himself. Still, he kept his eyes on the unfolding scene.

A priest of the Light was present at the gallows, and came to stand near Jennala, a book of the Scriptures of the Holy Light in hand.

"Jennala Ironhorse, you will today be embraced by the Holy Light, as it will purify you of sins and send you to your repose. Have you anything to say, my child?" His voice, even with the noise of a city, was clearly heard.

The prisoner gave a sigh, and for the first time, there was a crack in her demeanour. For a moment, the mask fell away. Despite the distance, Swiftblade felt it, and it was horrible to behold. For Jennala Ironhorse had come to death's door, and was terrified of what lay beneath.

It was the face he had seen on many battlefields, and yet none were as poignant as this. Perhaps, a part of himself told him merciless, it was because, in battle, he knew that he had no other choice in the matter. Here, however…

Then she spoke. The tremor in her voice was well-hidden, severely containing her terror, yet it was present nonetheless.

"I only wish that all here remember the sacrifices made." She said, her voice ringing. "I hope that the people will be allowed to recover. I pray to you all, forgive my lapse of judgement." She then swallowed and added. "Farewell, my love. Please understand, and forgive me." She then closed her eyes a moment, then turned to face her doom.

Minvare emitted a quiet sound. It contained such grief that Swiftblade, once again, elected not to look. He did not want, as cowardly as some may tell him, want to see that face. Not that he wished to see to see Jennala's death. And yet, he would have.

"The laws can be cruel, can they?" He asked Turalyon.

"Yes, they are. And yet, we must live by them day by day, or we become beasts, goblins, or orcs." The Paladin answered, his eyes fixed on the stage.

They put a hood on Jennala's face, even as the crowd began to grow louder. They were calling for her death with abandon, their faces contorted with anger and hatred. It was certain everyone had lost at least one important person in the Second War, and today was the time for revenge in many a mind.

The rope was put around the former general's neck. At that moment, Princess Jaina's doll fell out of her chair, and Swifblade, sitting the nearest from her, bent and picked it up. He saw the officers turn towards the King, he saw the ruler of Kul Tiras make a single gesture.

He handed over the doll and, not quite knowing how what to say, he began to that to the young girl would was scarcely older than his eldest child, Veran.

"Well met, Your Majesty. I trust the day is to your liking?" He asked gently. The girl looked at him suspiciously, but relaxed when she discovered that he was truly giving the doll back. "A fine doll, that."

"It was made in Gilneas, my Father told me." She piped up haughtily.

He nodded, his eyes on the gallows. "Indeed, My Lady Jaina. It costs much to get goods from Gilneas at the best of times."

"I have many such dolls, sir Knight."

"The power of wealth." He mused. The trap door opened beneath Jenalla's feet. The crowd's cries grew ever louder. "Luckily, it is yet all positive for you, Your Highness."

The little girl gave him an irritated look, for which he was grateful. She wasn't yet seeing the dying woman's desperate spasm as she gasped for air, her violent contortions as her body stopped obeying her mind and went for instinctive survival. Swiftblade gave her a smile, diverting his attention back to the small royal for a moment.

"There is always a price to gaining power. My Lady, I had little power at birth, and now have much of it."

Princess Jaina nodded enthusiastically. "Then you must be very happy, sir! Are you not?" she said.

The spasm ended. Minvare left his seat immediately, as did Eltrass. Neither said a word. Swiftblade looked at the body of one who had once been his friend and trusted comrade, dangling like meat, little better than that without the powerful soul which had once inhabited it.

He looked at the expectant princess.

"Sometimes, Your Highness." He stated, "Yet, not today."

_Winter 607, Alliance Portal Base, Dreanor_

Marcus Jonathan settled back on the simple camp chair. He was digesting what he had just been told.

"I have trouble believing it." He said at last.

Swiftblade cast him a neutral look.

"I can see why you might say that." The older knight mused, "Yet, on my honour as a Knight of Azeroth, I swear it to be truth."

Jonathan reeled. Not so much from the story but from what was behind it. There had been a certain level of cruelty, a decision lacking in real compassion, by the leaders of the Alliance army. He knew it had to happen at times, of course – the war had caused far worse and ever increasingly unjust situations. Compared to Queen Proudmoore's death, compared to the sacking of the dozens of towns and hundreds of villages, the suffering of an entire continent, what had been done was but a trifle.

Yet, it wasn't. That Turalyon, one of the paragons of the Knights of the Silver Hand, one of the Second War's greatest heroes, had used such underhanded methods to gain some political and social grounds.

"I agree with Lord Minvare." He said at last, "Whatever her treason by joining that foul Duraz's foolish Compact, her actions during the war assured her a more dignified end."

"So it did, son. So it did." Swiftblade mused. "Yet we did not grant her that, and it broke Minvare to see it so. No, that is a lie," the man countered swiftly "He had broken before. This was the last stroke, the swing which shattered trust and faith."

Jonathan shook his head. He had been a young Azerothian man when he'd joined the Alliance Army. He'd been just a young officer when the four Lord-Generals, led by Lord Lothar himself, had gathered an army the likes of which had not been mustered in millennia and pushed the Orcs back, ultimately breaking them. Could a man like Minvare, who had stood so high in the Light, fall plummeting to the darkness?

"There must be something else." He said. Swiftblade shrugged at that.

"Only the Light and Minvare himself can say now. I only told what I saw." The older man said.

"And, yet, Lord Swiftblade… such an sight, such an act, even though it is certainly a terrible thing, how can it bring such a mighty warrior down?"

Lord Swiftblade sized him up for a long time after that, his battle-hardened, determined face searching Jonathan's own with an intensity which the younger man found utterly disconcerting. It was as though the other man was gauging something or wondering if he'd heard right. There was some disapproval in that gaze.

"My young friend…" he breathed at last, his voice sharp. "Have you a wife to return to? Someone to whom your soul is dedicated to? Do you have children to give you succour when the darkness of your heart and the tedious days on this mortal land drags your soul?" He mused.

"Milord?"

"Well, Marcus Jonathan, do you have those?"

The eyes were daggers, the words swords. It was certain now that the disapproval reeked from the man's mouth. Jonathan knew he had struck something in the other man, although he could not quite understand what it was. He gave the man a hopeless look, trying to come up with the words.

"Milord…I…" he fumbled, but the older man stopped him with a gesture. His demeanour had returned to a sort of resigned calm.

"Of course not." He said, "Don't answer! Your face says it all. You have none of these things. If someone has touched your heart, it is not yet that deep." He leaned back on his chair.

"I am married to Eira Fregar. Unlike my common blood, she is from an old bloodline, with over thirty generations of noble blood in her. She was made for political matches more than affection. Yet she fell for this common soul of mine." He smiled in remembrance. "I yet strive to fully deserve her decision. Suffice to say that, had Eira been hanged for treason, I am not certain my sanity would have been intact afterwards."

Marcus found himself pulled sharply forward at that, and sharp brown eyes looked into his own. He found that Swiftblade's grip was as strong as an ogre at that moment.

"Love, General Jonathan." He stated, "Perhaps the most powerful of emotions, if one looks at it carefully. It is powerful enough to make the impossible, possible. It can elevate men or bring them into madness. Such was Minvare's fate, I fear. For years, I only hoped it would not be so."

The younger man was released suddenly, and Swiftblade rose, striding towards his maps and reports.

"That is all I will say. Now, we both have hard work ahead of us. Go tend to it as I will tend to mine." The grey-haired leader mused. From his tone, the discussion was at an end. Jonathan certainly didn't feel like contradicting him. He felt something had stirred Lord Swiftblade, and he didn't want to be an man who pushed the man just a little bit too far.

Consequently, and with as much dignity as he could manage without appearing to be running away, he left the tent with a bow.

The guards outside, dutifully guarding their lord, had certainly not heard the discussion through the magic dampening sounds, but they must had felt the rising tension within. Marcus found them just a bit farther from their post than was usual. With a snap, he ordered them back to their post, reminding them that they were guards for a reason.

He strode though the camp quickly, passing fires and groups talking and laughing drinking cheap ale and taking in the companionship in this strange world. He looked at them and envied them for a moment. His thoughts simply couldn't set on camaraderie for the moment. Not after a tale in which a great one had been sundered.

"Love, eh?" he mused.

He had never questioned himself much over it. He had been born to a minor noble house, and had married a woman arranged for since he was a child. There had been no need to seek other women, and he hadn't really wished to. His code of chivalry, he felt, forbade it.

Love. He admitted that he had never felt that for his wife. If it could make a great man like Rellon Minvare into a darkened man, was it that good to feel such emotions. It appeared that Aerth Swiftblade rated it hightly.

Such problems. He had other things to do. And yet, aside from the emotional issue, he had to agree that there was something in him which, somehow, understood a bit of the despair Turalyon had thrust his comrade into.

Had the paladin known? Jonathan felt that such a man must have, after all. But he would never ask. Only suppose.

He looked towards one of the fires again. Camaraderie seemed nice… at least for tonight. There would always be time for more decisions, for more battles. The Alliance could cope without him for one evening. Nodding to himself, decision made, he made his way to the group of veterans and waited until they had seen him.

"Can I join for a little while?" He asked, and the men seemed rather surprised. He doubted many of the other generals did such things. Swiftblade had once been rather close to his men, yet even he was cold and aloof these recent days. Was it the price of power?

Had it been what had killed General Ironhorse in the end, more than the hardening of her superiors' heart?

And had it been the only reason why Rellon Minvare had seemingly abandoned all faith in the world and the Alliance?

That last question, he realized, terrified him beyond belief. Shaking his head, Marcus Jonathan saw the men give him a place, and join them.

He would agonize over the new truths soon enough. Tonight, he only needed the companionship of his early career.

The Alliance Following The Second War

Following the devastating years of the Second War, which followed hard on the heels of the First War, the civilizations which made up the triumphant Alliance were spent, bloody and gravely wounded. Azeroth was a shambles of ruins, Stromgarde and much of Quel'Thalas little better. Even Lordaeron had suffered. Of all of the nations, only Kul Tiras and Gilneas had actually been lightly wounded, allowing them a greater say in Alliance affairs.

Alterac was a nation in name only, having been completely subjugated by Lordaeron and Stromgarde forces, its lands put under the martial law of both nations. Yet, resistance groups were many.

The Elves had seen much of their woodlands burned and defiled by the orcs and their death knights, even as the Dwarves saw most of their mines and upper towns razed. Yet, amidst all of this, the nations began the long, painful road of reconstruction, amidst growing dissent and the fear of a new Horde rising before the races were strong again.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Schemes and Findings

**Chapter Thirteen: Schemes and Findings**

_Winter 607, Auchindoun, Dreanor_

Kilrogg Deadeye had been awakened by a powerful explosion. It had shaken the ground, and had startled it. Had it ended there, it might not have warranted his attention immediately. But the explosion was followed by another, then another, and then many more in succession, and the aged orc could hear the chaos it was making across Auchindoun.

He knew it quite well, that sound. The sound of a human battleship's heavy cannons. He had forgotten all about sleep at once and gone outside.

He was watching now, as an unknown number of human warships, staying outside of the torches' range, hit his fortress with explosive cannonballs. Those contraptions had been murderous during the last war, and the goblins had never quite come up with something to even the odds. Even if they had, however, it would be no use, as Auchindoun boasted only three juggernauts and a handful of other ships.

But it wasn't quite the worst of it. What was worse was that the sentries and guards reported that three land forces appeared to be surrounding Auchindoun from the east, south and west, even as the human ships hammered down from the north.

"How did they get so close without our noticing it? Where were our scouts?" He roared to one of his warlords. The younger orcs, larger and fitter, still shivered from Deadeye's tone.

"We don't know, Chieftain." He answered quickly, "They haven't reported since before nightfall. But if they were destroyed, it can only be those elf rangers."

Deadeye nodded. It was the only thing he could think of, as well. Rangers, aided by magic. Ships, certainly aided by magic. The humans and the orcs had begun their decades of wars with even magic, but Doomhammer's purge had crippled them in a way that the Horde never recovered.

"They disembarked at nightfall, slipping by us, encircling us, and then setting their ships before we knew it." The chieftain grunted. "Well-planned, but with such heavy risks…"

At that, he had a thought. Not an amusing one, but it fit his experiences with the humans. He gestured to his best sentry to try and spot the banners on any of the forces.

"Look for the animal on the banners." He grunted. It took the sentry only a few moments before he spotted one, barely visible in the darkness, and yet just recognizable enough: a flying form around what appeared to be a human sword.

The Wyvern Army. The Army of Aerth the Trickster. Deadeye nodded pensively, keeping his anger back, preventing it from altering his thinking. The Trickster. It fit what had happened. Swiftblade had always been daring and effective in his manoeuvres. The chieftain knew that risked movements were more often than not calculated by the human.

"So, here I am fighting the human who matched Argal Grimfrost blow for blow on the battlefield." He grinned tuskily. The old warrior in him was worried about the prospect, but also elated at the idea of fighting an opponent who had gained respect even in the Horde.

"The Trickster…" One of the warlords began, and then it was all they could to remain standing when one of the battleships hit the wall beneath them. It did not give way – it had been built for more than that – but the tremor nearly sent them all down far below, to their deaths.

Deadeye regained his balance angrily. He had no intention of letting the enemy have its way with him. "Warlords! Ready all of our catapults! Have them fire towards the sea, just beyond the light!"

"But, Chieftain, we may never hit one of the battleships at all."

"We might not, but they don't know that we can't see them. At least they won't be as brazen with us! Do it!" He snapped, and orcs were hurried out to give the necessary orders. Deadeye glowered. "Look at how unprepared we are!"

"Its not our troops' fault, Chieftain." An older orc growled, "We're not as many as we should be. Four thousand troops here, and no support. We never thought that the humans would attack so quickly."

Deadeye snorted. NER'ZUL hadn't thought it possible. As powerful a shaman as the orc might be, he was a poor warrior and warlord. Deadeye had seen the humans enough to know that they could be dangerously sly and resourceful, and that they had leaders to take advantage of those.

Aerth The Trickster was one of those humans. Knowing this, Deadeye looked away from the sea and towards the amassed bodies of Alliance troops.

"Three armies? Impossible." He reasoned. "Even with all of his luck and cunning, Swiftblade can't have brought that many. Too much risk. Turalyon'd never allow it." He sniffed at the damp, sooty air a moment. "Do you want to confuse me? Do you want me to guess?"

"Chieftain?"

Deadeye looked at the sentry, who had stayed with him. "Youngling, you never came with us to the human homeland, did you?" he asked, and he worked to make his tone gentle. For all of their flaws – which were in many way self-inflicted – and despite their curse – which often caused overwhelming guilt to the elder orc – his people remained his people.

The young orc, who had been so keen-eyed, shook his head respectfully, clearly in awe at being addressed by his own Chieftain like this. "No, Chieftain, I was too young."

"Then you have much to learn, orcling. Look on those armies, waiting in the darkness. What do you make of them?"

The orc looked rather aghast at the question, which slightly annoyed Deadeye. Seeing that his chieftain was serious, however, the younger warrior studied the darkened masses attentively.

"They're staying there. Just so we can see them, but they're not attacking." He said at length.

"Good. But they would have catapults to attack us. Why do you think they're not doing it right now?"

The orc looked lost. "Waiting for us to charge them?" he asked, and there was a glint of glee in his eyes as he suggested that. Bloodlust was alive in all of them, even the young ones, perhaps especially them.

Deadeye held himself fast as another tremor battered the walls. The catapults began to echo back in response. Still, the old orc gestured around him, and at the three armies they were seeing massing. It was Aerth Swiftblade fighting out there. He could not allowed himself to think along ordinary lines.

"No. If they really had three real armies to attack us, they'd have done it already. Their placement is achieving their purpose, along with the bombardments. Look at this! They have us perfectly cornered. With three armies, all they need is to sweep in, and we're joining the ancestors!"

The younger orc shivered at the taboo, but the elder one never even flinched. Kilrogg Deadeye hadn't survived that long by being bothered by such things.

"Then why?"

"Its impossible to tell for sure" he said with an undertone of anger, "But I say that they're trying hard to make themselves seen. And that can only mean one thing: those forces are bait. The Trickster wants to see us make a mistake he can use against us!"

The younger orc bristled at that. Deadeye could tell what the youth was thinking: that it was, dishonourable, and foolish, and that the Horde would never stooped to such things. However, the Horde in the human lands had learned quickly. It had never been enough, however.

"We have to crush him. But how do we do that, chieftain?" At that, Deadeye smiled plainly, his old tusks clearly visible.

"We try to be tricksters ourselves, my young friend." The chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow Clan stated, his eyes hard on the Horizon, searching for that dangerous human leader.

* * *

_Winter 607, Auchindoun, Dreanor_

Danath grinned. This was the thing he was good at. Not the things that the nobility did. He had never been very good at the court, at parties and other celebrations. He had never been a good caretaker of his own, private lands and wealth. It hadn't been in his blood, though he was cousin to Thoras Trollbane himself.

What he was good at was warfare. From his youth, he had been fighting. Bandits, monsters, even trolls had been fair game to him. And when Anduin Lothar had given his call for unity and brought together the massive armies of the Alliance to fight the Horde, Danath had been the first to go, and had struck from the front for the entire war.

But a good fight was sweeter if the odds of winning were greater. And he had confidence in the man who was walking beside him. Swiftblade had fought on the battlefield enough to warrant respect, but it was his peculiar genius which footmen and knights alike admired.

"So, General." He said, his grin spreading under his bushy, greying beard. Even though Swiftblade was neither small nor slight, Danath towered over him, so that the other man had to crane his neck upward. "What foolishly creative plans did you create for us poor confused footmen to follow?"

Swiftblade gave a small elbow hit to Danath's stomach. "I didn't know that my own strategies were that hard to follow."

"Well, that's only because you have good subordinates, I think." Danath smiled.

"Arrogant today, aren't we?" Swiftblade answered, grinning from below. The far larger human shrugged.

"And you aren't, Lord-General Aerth Swiftblade, Invincible General and Fox of the South?" He quipped.

Hearing the grand titles that services and a growing fame had granted him, the general who was intent on bringing down Auchindoun gave a wry chuckled and ran a mailed hand across his grey hair. "Good point, my friend, good point."

Danath knew that most Commanders and no Captain would ever talk to the supreme commander of a large task force so lightly. But Danath had known the other man since Swiftblade had been an upstart general who had just begun to shine. Danath had long served under General Jennala – the Light keep her soul safe – before serving this other man, and had taken his familiar ways with him. Ever since, they had talked to each other the same way they were presently doing.

Danath looked at the looming Horde fortress, still being pummelled by their battleships at irregular intervals. "How are you going to take that fortress?"

"Take it? I haven't thought of that part yet." Swiftblade mused idly. Danath was taken aback by the simple answer. The general was known for his peculiar and spectacular tactics, but this was somewhat of a new stretch. Danath looked about the camp, but saw that no one was nearby. He sighed in relief. Swiftblade looked amused. "Come, my friend. I'd never speak like that in front of the troops."

"So I find myself blessed with your incomplete plans alone." Danath muttered ruefully. "Fifteen years of campaign and you still stagger me."

"My plans for taking Auchindoun are incomplete, my friend, because I don't find them all that important to this operation."

"But our orders…your orders…"

"Those orders are for us to crush Auchindoun as a supply point and staging point." Swiftblade brought his lips together stiffly. "On that point, my plans are almost complete."

Danath blinked, and he felt the beginnings of a headache. Talking with Swiftblade about tactics often did that to him. The man was sometimes too convoluted for his taste. Even though the plans, he admitted to himself, worked most of the time.

"You, general, are as confusing as ever."

"So my lady wife keeps telling me."

"Lady Eira is as wise as she is beautiful. I would never dare defy her opinions of you, general." He said, bowing slightly, and at that they both chuckled.

Swiftblade regained his seriousness and continued walking, passing near a sentry and answering the soldier's salute with a nod. He seemed absorbed in something, looking at the looming Auchindoun, where many enemies were awaiting the assault.

"We will never be able to attain our objectives with conventional attacks and means, old friend." He mused at long last. Danath gave the fortress a look. It was a formidable bastion, but he didn't find it as daunting as Blackrock Spire, and said so.

"And there were many more orcs at Blackrock Spire." He pointed out.

"Many orcs, but orcs with no morale, dwindling supplies and hopes. And there were forty times the number of men we have here. The situation is not similar." The general shot back.

Danath felt frustrated again. Swiftblade had always been keen on explaining actions when someone needed to know, but the man also liked to keep some mystery before the battle was joined. Friends were no exception to this rule, it seemed. The veteran warrior shook his head and sighed.

"It seems you want me to be plainer…" Swiftblade mused.

"Does it show so much?"

"Incredibly. Alright, Danath. We have a powerful fortress here, and I doubt we can hold it even if we did manage to take it. So, I don't intend to take it at all. Wait a moment! I won't take it, but the enemy will find it unusable when I'm done." Swiftblade pointed a mailed finger at the orc bastion. "I will force Kilrogg Deadeye to surrender, which will crippled the Bleeding Hollow Clan and deal a blow which, hopefully, will stall whatever plans the Horde has for us."

Danath blinked. "This sounds like you're taking a very large risk, General. If we lose as many men with this, without even taking the fortress…"

"It will be the end of us in the long run." Swiftblade grinned, letting his arm drop. "So I will work to minimize casualties and win at the same time."

"Heh. Arrogant as always."

"That is the attitude we need right now: arrogance. But arrogance backed by a plan." Swiftblade shot back. "Don't worry about the latter. I have one, and you'll hear it all in due time. I will leave you this small clue: it is all about confusion, deceit, and troop movements."

The enormous human warrior brushed his beard. "If you say so, I'll trust that. You've never led the men astray yet, and I think you won't this time. But this isn't for me, those complicated plans. I'm a frontline fighter, and so are my men."

Swiftblade and Danath came to the general's tent, and stopped near the knights guarding it. The greying general who had once saved the entire war effort with a small, dysfunctional army, clasped his hands together. He seemed almost relieved by Danath's last utterance.

"And so, my friend, we will have fighting. Because, if our deception is to work, our strength must be quite real when we do strike." The general grinned, gave a small bow, and entered his tent.

Behind him, Danath shook his head ruefully, smiling all the same. Aerth Swiftblade was a hard man to understand at times, but he always kept his promises. If he said that there would be heavy fighting, it meant what it said.

And that meant that Danath's men would be pushed to their limits.

The veteran would never wanted any other way.

* * *

_Winter 607, Lioris Plains, Lordaeron_

Uther Lightbringer had other things to do.

As leader of the Knights of the Silver Hand, he had to rally his Order and prepare his brethren to aid the arcane nation of Dalaran, a feat which might drain him greatly. He also had to act as an ambassador to the elves and the nation of Gilneas to keep them from withdrawing support from the Alliance while the expedition was yet fighting on the Horde world.

He also had to look upon Rellon Minvare, whom Turalyon suspected to have become unbalanced. To have such a powerful individual on the way to insanity was the last thing the Alliance needed.

All of these tasks were important, crucial even.

'So why,' he thought in irritation, 'Am I riding to catch up with a disobedient Crown Prince?' Yet, he had sworn himself to King Terenas during the Second War, and it was the paladin's unspoken duty to look after the youth as best he could.

He heard sounds of a gallop ahead, and urged his own steed on. His charge was nearby. Within moments, he was in sight, and gave a great yell to gain the young man's attention.

"Prince Arthas! Stop at once!" He shouted. The prince looked behind him in surprise, spotting the bigger man and the larger warhorse easily. The youth was mastering his riding horse well through years of tutoring, and he was arrayed in impressive, fluted armour perfectly fitted for his size.

Surprise and the arrogance all of high nobility seemed to have warred upon Arthas' youthful, handsome face. Finally, the youth pushed blonde hairs away from his forehead and laughed, forcing his horse to a halt.

"Uther!" The Crown Prince of Lordaeron shouted happily, his eyes as animated and his voice as strong as ever. "Its good to see you!"

The paladin brought his horse to a halt near the prince's own, but fixed the younger man with a pointed stare. "Aye, lad, so I would like to say myself. But I cannot. Not when I come to see that you took a horse and rode out, leaving your bodyguards and the safety of your summer mansion on a whim!"

The prince's smile slipped in a moment, and the blonde head turned away. "There was no choice! I cannot stand being cooped up like a child!" He snapped. The paladin grunted with disapproval.

"That sentence, in itself, proves you a child still! When you can stand to obey orders, you will have proven your growth to me and the His Majesty!" When Arthas flashed him an angry look, Uther raised a stern finger for silence. "Do you think Lord Lothar managed to create the Alliance and led us so well by relying only on whims?"

He had the lad, and he knew it. For all of his bravado, the young man had grown upon stories of the great heroes of the First War, and the figures of the Second. Of them he particularly admired Lothar, whom he had met as a child but did not remember much. It was enough to sober the prince.

"I…that is true, I suppose."

"It is. Lord Lothar, a great man if there ever was one, didn't act on whims, Prince Arthas." He admonished. "He held to his obligations and waited for the right moment."

It wasn't particularly true – stories of Lothar's wilder days were well-known in Stormwind's society and talked about amongst the few Knights who had survived both the First and Second War. But he wasn't about to say so. He looked at the downtrodden Prince and sighed.

"We are near a place that I think you should see. Come, Prince." He mused, turning his horse about and leaving the dust road. Arthas seemed at a loss by the sudden decision, and loudly asked where they were going.

"You will know soon enough. Come, come, it is barely an hour's ride by these woods." He mused. The prince, grumbling, eventually followed, as Uther had known he would.

The woods were quiet, except for the usual noises of life. Still, the Lightbringer held to his weapon firmly, and Arthas's grip on his ornate sword was nothing short of frantic. Woods were never totally devoid of danger, even ones near the capital city of the world's strongest human realm.

"What do you wish me to see?" Arthas asked with trepidation.

"Patience."

Uther had long been in the parts around the mansion where the Prince had spent many of his summers. He knew these woods, and what lay behind them. In fact, many had worked so that the prince never stumbled upon what he was about to show the youth. The paladin, however, thought that the wide-eyed, future king, saw reality for what it was.

The woods weren't very long, and so the two came upon their destination in due time. When the prince saw the scene, he recoiled slightly.

"L-light! What happened to this place!" He cried. Uther only studied the scene with sad eyes.

"The war happened to this, and it has never departed."

Before them was a scene repeated manifold across the nation and throughout the continent. The green grass and cultivated lands of Lordaeron's breadbasket were rent and torn, and only sparse vegetation had grown back in the intervening years. Charred, rotting remains of powerful weapons and catapults dotted the landscape, the remnants of what had been armours and broken weapons, half-buried in the earth and covered in rust and dust.

"You knew of the glories of the Second War, Prince Arthas, but you saw little of its darkness." The paladin said seriously. "Even when the capital came under direct siege, you were too young, and you were protected from the worst. This, this is the Second War. This is where the Alliance met the Horde and finally pushed it back from Lordaeron."

"Lord Lothar's counterattack?" The prince asked haltingly, looking at the dead, eerie scene before him in a daze.

"Aye, indeed. Lord Lothar, aided by many of the finest generals in the Alliance, managed to rally our forces and met the Horde, which was caught in a severe civil War. The battle here cost highly in blood, and saw many dead before its end. Look, my Prince, look at these mounds."

Arthas looked, and contemplated the two mounds, standing like tiny mountains on each side of the battlefield. "These are?"

"The dead, Prince Arthas. Many lost their lives here, on both sides. We had to bury them in mounds, for there were so many of them. It took us many days and nights of hard labour. I think that no one will inhabit these parts of fair Lordaeron for years, if they ever do."

Arthas gave the paladin an indignant stare, as if he had been slapped. His eyes fairly burned. "You mean you gave those… foul orc, troll and ogre BEASTS the same treatment as you gave Alliance soldiers?" He would have said more, but was silenced by Uther's warning glare.

"Have a care, Lad, with what you speak of." The aging man snapped, his tone reproachful. "We of the Holy Light are not beasts, and we seek to honour the dead. ALL of the dead. In this way, we stand above the savagery of the orcs. War, as you can see, is not as clear-cut as you may think. You have much to learn."

Arthas looked away in frustration, yet his eyes could not escape the remnants of the hate-filled, bitter fighting which had taken place between two titanic armies year ago. Uther looked at the boy gravely.

"And so, I think it is time for you to learn more about the world." At that, the prince looked at him in surprise. "Prepare yourself, Prince. You will aid me on my mission to Dalaran." He cut the boy off before he could speak, leaning forward gravely.

And then, the leader of the Knights of the Silver Hand made a decision which was neither cruel nor merciful for the future leader of the greatest human nation in the world.

"There, I hope, you will se the truth of what this world is, and you will let it make you wiser than you are now." He gave the countryside a last sad look.

"For, Prince Arthas, wisdom may yet stop this tragedy from ravaging our world once more."

* * *

_Winter 607, Moonbrooke, Azeroth_

Moonbrooke, Eira saw at once, had seen better days.

She had once been at Moonbrooke in her youth, before the world had been irrevocably changed by the Horde's arrival. Her memories of the city, however, were made sharper by her husband's recounting her of his own childhood.

Before the war, she knew, Moonbrooke had been the smaller sister to Goldshire in Elwynn. Although it never reached the heights of Sunshire, it was a prosperous city, with well-kept walls, a healthy marketplace, and many houses for the mighty and the meek alike. Sitting against the hills, it was surrounded on most sides by wide fields and pastures.

Her husband, Aerth, had never found the time to visit his old home after he had brought what remained of his parents to be interred in castle's mausoleum; There had been too many things left to be done, and between his role as husband, duke and general, there had been no time.

She was glad of that.

"Hardly the life our people wanted to rebuild, is it?" Lady Katrana said as she glided beside her. Alongside them, soldiers from House Swiftblade kept close, as if the enemy could strike at any moment. In Goldshire, she would have found it excessive. Here, however…

The city had been rebuilt, but nowhere near to its former glory. Everywhere, the buildings seemed to sag, still sporting old wounds or having been patched with shoddy materials. Eira had seen little in the ways of the lively market her husband had often told her of. The place where he'd often helped his mother buy food for dinner was nowhere to be seen, although the spaces still existed.

And the people, they seemed haggard and lifeless to her eyes. It was like the enter area of Westfall was disintegrating before her very eyes, the region seeped of its life. The abandoned farms had been a shock, but to see the former agricultural bastion in such a state was far worse than that.

"Can they truly have done this? Killed the prosperity in the area?" She wondered. The raven-haired noblewoman gave Eira a look.

"Far from improbable, my good Lady Eira. Their thirst for vengeance may have blinded them to what they are doing?"

"We should simply have paid them. I and my husband warned the House of Nobles, warned the King about such a thing!" she growled, indicating the withering city, with its crumbling walls and depressed citizenry. "This…this could have been averted."

"There is little to be done about this, except for moving on, is there?" The powerful Noblewoman mused at that. Eira gave a cool glance, and then looked around. Some gave her looks she didn't quite like, but held back from her guards. Well they should – they were well-paid, and had been personally chosen by Aerth for loyalty and skill.

"This is a dangerous place to spend even one night. If this foolhardy review is to be relatively safe, we need a place of safety." She reasoned.

'A review…' she thought scornfully. 'What am I doing? Certainly, the Brotherhood is causing problems for Stormwind and the House of Nobles, but how can we hope to make this right? We have the wrong bearing, the wrong methods. Even now, we look like high nobles coming to glare down at these poor souls.'

All very logical, all very right. But Eira, of the vanished House Fregar, had always been one to continue a task, even when the odds seemed poor. It had seen her through Sunshire's destruction, through her being Duraz's prisoner, dodging his advance and through the tainted catacombs beneath Lordaeron's capital city.

Good or ill, her will had told her to take on this task. The Light willing, she would find a way to be of use.

Her guards stiffened a moment, and as she looked, she saw the man looking sideways, towards an alley.

"What is it?" she asked softly. "Speak without fear, but swiftly." He bowed slightly, still giving the alley they'd just passed a few glances.

"T'seemed to be someone there, m'lady." He stated respectfully. "It be gone as soon as I looked, Light be m'guide. Someone quick, there, m'lady. Those here eyes're sharp."

She didn't doubt him. A chill ran through her being, and she worked to conceal that fear. This place was desperate, and dangerous. Walking through the streets like this would be imprudent.

"Lady Prestor, a safe place might well be necessary now." She urged. The other lady, who had obviously been listening, nodded grimly.

"I have such a place. Let us go at once." She mused, and led the way, the guards flanking them through the muddy, smelly streets of Moonbrooke.

The place was a small mansion, in relatively good repair compared to the rest of the area. A rather tall wall surrounded it, and two guards in unfamiliar livery opened the gates after a few words from the Prestor matriarch. Eira barely contained a sigh of relief when the gates – rusted but sturdy – closed behind her group. Even the guards relaxed.

"Is Lord Zavier here, guard?" Lady Prestor asked smoothly.

"Yes, Lady Katrana. Our Lord is awaiting you inside the mansion." The guard then bowed and returned to his duties.

"Lord Zavier?" Eira asked. She had never heard of the name. Certainly not a very powerful name in the noble circles. The other lady, however, seemed rather pleased.

"A friend. A lord of the lesser House of Mearine. An excitable fellow, so do not be surprised if he seems… queer." The conversation seemed to be over as far as the other noblewoman was concerned, for she made her way towards the mansion at that instant. Glowering slightly, Eira followed, guards trailing.

The mansion's heavy doors opened, and out came a strange man.

Strange was the only one Eira could think off when she saw him. Dressed in robes of bright purple and green, with slashes of yellow and blue, made his appearance hurtful to the eyes. This was made only worse by the fact that he wore a bright, red scarf around his neck to fight the cold air.

But what she saw the most was the man's face. White as a sheet, so much so that even his eyes seemed to be colourless, it made his appearance both clownish and slightly unnerving. His smile seemed genuine, but his movements, quick and agitated, only served to further alienate the noblewoman from her host.

Strange. It was the right word, she decided.

"Welcome, my ladies, welcome!" He said in a surprisingly pleasant, even melodious, voice. He came to quickly kiss Lady Katrana's hand. "Ah, milady! Seeing you gladdens my heart, and showers me with happiness!"

"Suave as ever, my Lord Zavier. It is good to find you unchanged. But I have one who travels with me who should be welcomed as well." The lady said, and the man clapped his hands and quickly went to see Eira, who fought off an urge to step back.

"My, yes, how rude. Lady Eira Swiftblade, I know of you. Your husband allowed me to reclaim my old home, for which I thank you and your House eternally. I must say, the honour is nearly too much." He excitedly kissed her hand. "But where are my manners in the end! Forgive my impudence. Milady, I am Zavier Mearine, sixth Count of Moonbrooke of my line."

"Yes, so I gathered. I heard of the name Mearine through my Husband before." She said. Her only visit to Moonbrooke had been brief and had been too long ago, yet she did remember Aerth telling her about the ruling family his city had. Whatever the case, this seemed to please her host.

"Oh, the mighty General Aerth Swiftblade has heard of my family! I am honoured indeed. Please, come inside, come inside." He smiled widely. "We will talk more of this inside.

Strangely, for some reason, Eira did not feel very safe from those words.

* * *

_Winter 607, Violet Citadel, Dalaran_

A shield made of pure magical energy blocked the demon's strike, giving Rena Delado time to complete her spell. Brought forth from the ether, tendrils of arcane might grasped at the hulking beast, holding it in place like vines. The creature struggled, its roars deafening the archmagess' ears, yet the spell held it in place.

Rena panted in exhaustion, burning from several wounds which, while serious, were not life threatening. Three of these beings had fallen to her groups's hands, along with a dozen lesser monsters, and the battle was telling on her.

The warmages with Delado were almost drained of strength, when they were standing at all, and as such couldn't help in finishing off the last one. Fortunately, she had the beat exactly where she wanted.

She focused her mind and her remaining energies in creating a small link, feeling out the energies of her opponent and arranging the arcane eddies to force the creature into the beyond. Strings of arcane knowledge, crafted into awkward words and channelled through careful skill, created the invisible vortex. It was a feat that most wouldn't have been able to do in the circumstances, but Delado had never been considered average.

The creatures's power attempted to resist, but Delado ceaselessly continued her litany, forcing herself to forget fatigued and fear, concentrating only upon her enemy. Finally, she felt the other plane take hold of the creature, being drawn to it, and quickly drawing it back with it.

A moment of struggle, a scream of inhuman rage, and then the creature became translucent, and disappeared completely. Its presence gone, the archmagess stopped speaking. She swallowed and fought to keep herself steady, but the drain was too much, she collapsed backward.

Hands took hold of her before she slammed on the floor, and the tired warmages took her to what was perhaps the only chair left nearly whole in the sect's chambers. She nodded her thanks, and took hold of a vial of blue-white liquid. She coughed, working on the cork, as the others engaged in several activities around her.

"How many did we lose here?" She rasped.

"Two, Mistress Rena. Ferad and Kara are dead, and we fear for Ioluk." One of the warmages, a battered man of unknown age, told her. He seemed as spent as she was, although his own wounds seemed light.

Rena gritted her teeth. "That will be the ninth and the tenth deaths since we began this search in this group alone." She pointed out. The man, who had been there since the beginning, nodded. Slowly, the cork was coming off, and she used that distraction to forget the pain.

She looked around in disgust. Even at first glance, she was certain that they'd find nothing worth their time and efforts. Still, that they had lost ten warmages – the elite soldiery of the Violet Citadel – worried her. If these were nothing, how hard would the true cult be? It was a question she regularly lost sleep on.

The cork came off. With a sigh, she drank the fluid it contained in seconds, forcing the concoction down her throat.

As soon as it was inside her, she felt the strange magic – the energies of the Holy Light, some would say – course through her. The pain began to fade, and her strength seemed to return quickly. As she looked, lacerations on her arms, closed, the bones in her right hand righted themselves, and bruises faded. Although it would take several minutes for her health to be fully restored, she could now move with no problem.

She saw as she stood that the warmages had forced the concoction down the terribly wounded man's own throat, for he seemed to sleep normally. Beside him, however, were two shrouded bodies. She shook her head grimly.

She would try to see if priestly magic might bring their souls back long enough for the bodies to be treated, but she held little hope – few priests could bring the dead from the afterlife, and most of those. Lived well away from Dalaran.

"Such a waste." She quickly came to one of the searching warmages. "Anything?"

"No luck." He answered.

"No papers, no clue, nothing?" she said.

"So it seems, Mistress."

She looked about the room in growing anger. It was a deep cellar, below a normal-looking inn. Located just outside the city proper, it had be the center of a powerful cult, a cult of conjurers. She had learned of them by chance, and had decided to strike in case these were related to the ones who had, not so long ago, attacked the center of magical learning with surprising savagery.

There were traces of corruption her to be sure, and the acolytes of the cult had fought like berserkers, yet there was nothing conclusive. At best, this would be put down as another cult working outside the formal laws of the Kirin Tor. An embarrassment, perhaps, but hardly helpful.

Fighting on Dreanor suddenly seemed infinitely more meaningful to her. At least there were tangible results to it!

"Very well." She forced herself to say bitterly. "Have the place noted in the journals. We will report this cult to our authorities once we are certain that we have eliminated it."

"As you wish, Mistress Rena." The warmage said.

'Still,' the archmagess thought as she moved about the room, filled with bodies and the remains of foul demonic beings 'I find it strange that such a small group was so well-prepared to receive our foray. Summoning those three full demons, with the added strength of those weak, impish creatures, must have taken tremendous magical might.'

She recalled her fight with the one who had seemingly led the cult, and found that the man had been no challenge to her power. Strange, given that this was work on a level which even she would have been rather impressed with.

"Mistress!" one of the warmages said. "I may have found something of note on this scroll!" Hearing this, Delado hurried over the charred remnants of the battle-rent room.

The warmage presented her with a half-burned scroll, opened to reveal a letter of some sort. Taking it from the other's hands, she carefully began to read. She frowned, then stared at the letters scrawled on the parchment.

"Now, this is very interesting." She admitted, as a grin spread on her face. The warmages, having by now gathered about her, glanced at each other.

"I cannot decipher it, Mistress." The warmage who had given her the scroll pointed out. "It is neither of the human language, nor the elvish, nor arcane."

"Nor would it help to understand goblin, dwarven or even orcish scripts. This is different indeed." She finished reading. "This, friends, is dragon speak, perhaps the oldest script in existence, older than elven script by thousands of years."

She tapped the parchment. "This is a rare find, one which should go, as foul as it might be, to our arcane loremasters at once. This is part of a ritual to bring demons into our world, using the ancient magical energies of the Aspects themselves, generating even purer magic."

"How can a small cult have hold of such a thing. "A female warmage cried. Delado nodded pensively, her grin not budging.

"How, indeed? Because I think that they had someone who provided them with means. These poor, damned souls here were a very tangible decoy, a doppelganger of sorts."

"How do you know, Mistress?" One warmage asked.

"Let us say that I have a very strong feeling about this." She said, looking at the small drawing of a black crescent over a wave. The sign of Gul'Dan. The sign of the Shadow Council. She gave the assembled warmages a sharp stare.

"Handle this. The Kirin Tor must be made aware of this. At least, we have a link to our hidden enemy." She stated.

And, using the last of her strength, she summon her magic and was gone from the sullied cellar.

* * *

_Late Winter 607, Auchindoun, Dreanor_

The attack came from the west on the first day.

His forces had prepared for the assault, and so when the western force began to move towards them quickly, Kilrogg Deadeye's forces were well prepared.

The human forces made heavy usage of catapults and ballistae. Great ladders attempted to go upward, and archers exchanged volleys over the battered walls. For two hours, the humans continued their offensive, and things quickly moved into a stalemate.

Then, when two had passed, the humans swiftly recovered, regrouped and then moved swiftly to strike upon most battered parts of the eastern walls. Swiftly, the orcs moved to redeploy, but as soon as they'd arrived, the humans had moved away, regrouped, and attacked the southern walls.

And so it went, to the chieftain's disbelief, as the forces kept shifting this way and that, battering the walls and yet not allowing the defenders time to counter their offensive. West came, then east and then south, to be followed by the east, and the west, then the south. Such was the first day of battle. By nightfall, the humans had retired to their camps, and lights could be seen from them.

In the orc camp, hundreds of orcs, angered by the humans' lack of honour in combat, had prepared a sortie. Deadeye learned of it, but nearly four hundred of the hot-blooded orcs had opened the gates and charged, and it took all of his presence to keep the rest of the bloodthirsty warriors from doing the same. There was a ruckus, which ended within an hour. As Deadeye had known, Swiftblade had been ready for a hot-blooded attempt at attacking his camps.

The next day came, and the human forces struck with force around the western walls, then turned to strike at the eastern ones before heading towards the southern walls. It was at that moment, Deadeye knew, that he had made a dire mistake.

Seeing the movement, exactly similar to the one the day before, he had ordered his army to concentrate on the southern walls. As the troops moved, lookouts told him of ballista moving towards the western walls. He then knew that the rules had changed. Hoping to keep them off-balance, Swiftblade had changed the way his army would move. He wondered how they could move so swiftly. Mages? Secret signals? He didn't know, aside from the fact that this army was nimble and effective.

And then, in the agitation of the sudden redeployment, a force of humans came from the east and struck at the barely-defended walls there.

Deadeye could feel the situation escaping him, slipping through his fingers.

It made him more than wrathful.

"Bring our people about! But don't let the western walls undefended!" he called, his voice booming over the din. "Have the ogres throw boulders at them. Keep them back!"

His people moved to their position. He could feel the strain in them. He didn't feel more fear, but rather a rising wrath. Not a good thing, he knew, even though he felt the same way as they did. To leave right now meant that Auchindoun would fall. During the war with the Alliance, such attacks had never worked against the sly Swiftblade, or the cautious Minvare. They had always been prepared.

The troops were moving quickly, but weren't going to their most useful postings. Many gripped weaponry, most were raging at the humans, and were made even angrier by the jeers coming down from the attacking humans. Volleys began to be exchanged again, and screams and shouts erupted from both sides.

"What's happening?" One of the orcs with Deadeye exclaimed angrily. "How are the humans able to move around like this.

"Mages. Making small portals from place to place." Another orc growled. "They did this a lot during the wars in the human world."

Deadeye nodded. He had been thinking the same thing. But human spellcasters were limited in number, and would be tired eventually. If they could hold out just this day, Swiftblade would have to retire and rethink his battleplan. It would allow the Shadowmoon Clan to send in reinforcements.

'Reinforcements?' he thought in angry sarcasm. 'As if my clan isn't nothing but a buffer for that senile shaman?'

"We have to keep them off the walls." He mused, "And find a way to escape this place." He saw them look at him with wide eyes. To the orcish people, fleeing and retreating were absurd ideas. Nobody thought them. Or, more likely, nobody dared to act on such ideas. Even the terrible wars with the humans hadn't shaken this habit out of them.

"Flee? Never!" One orc said. "Do you want us to flee like cowards?"

"I want us to live to fight another day. Auchindoun is failing. Look at our people. Rage fills them! How are they going to fight the humans after today?"

"Our blood makes us stronger than the humans!" one interjected angrily. Deadeye felt his own rage rising. Only decades of experience kept the red haze away.

"Our blood makes us stronger in body, but strength means nothing here! We're acting with too little discipline! Put those males to their proper posts. Reinforce our gates! We can't allow the walls to get…"

He didn't finish his sentence. It would have been superfluous after the next moment.

Part of the southern wall was shaken by a great explosion, and parts of it, already weakened, crumbled. It had been a part of the wall that the human ships had targeted much. He wasn't surprised to see it happening there.

He was shaken off his feet by the blast, but few cries of pain sounded over the cries of panic and anger. 'Why not?' he sneered inwardly, 'I've just a few orcs in the south. Well-played, human.'

"The humans have broken the southern walls! Treachery!" One orc growled. "Warriors, prepare to push them off!"

Deadeye quickly made his way to the top of the shattered wall, even as the men milled about, grasping axes and lances to repel the enemy. He came to the top of the wall, expecting to see the humans converging, with their dwarven attackers and their elf archers raining arrows. He was expecting a powerful strike.

However, what greeted his eyes surprised him greatly.

The humans were regrouping, but not advancing. Instead, their forces were gathered out of range of lance or catapult. Patiently waiting. Gently gazing.

Patently sneering at the gathered orcs, it seemed to the elder orc's eyes.

"Well played, human. You deserve to be called Trickster." He grunted. Swiftblade was acting blatantly, and there was no way out of the trap.

The facts were now simple: his people could either attack, or escape. With the walls broken in, and orcs whose bloodthirst would be high, there was little choice.

The humans would wait until they did. Their mages must be totally drained by now, one could surmise, but the chieftain knew it meant nothing. The massing force was at least three times his own, and they were orderly. One way or another, his people would fall. Except if he did the unthinkable. Except if his people escaped.

"Gather all of the strongest orcs, all of the ogres, to me. Rakor, when I attack, I want you to lead those who remain with you. Take them west, far from the battlefield, to our secret fortresses."

"Chieftain! I can't leave in the middle of-" The young orc began indignantly. But the old orc stopped him at once with a one-eyed glare.

"Enough! We are defeated! We can't hold Auchindoun, but I won't have all of our forces perish here! Now go! As for the rest of us…" he looked over to the waiting human forces, to the wyvern flag waving in the distance, and grinned, his old tusks showing proudly.

"As for the rest of us, we'll thank Swiftblade the Trickster for that highly entertaining little game."

* * *

The Ban of Conjuration and Necromancy

The elves had never been inclined to teach more than basic magic to humanity, yet humans developed magic to great levels, eventually discovering the powers to reanimate corpses, as well as a way to bring otherworlders into their home plane. Eventually, incidents became dire enough that the elves acted, petitioning the Kirin Tor to stop some areas of magical research.

After an undead experiment killed nearly a thousand people in the Violet Citadel itself, the human mages acquiesced to the elven demands, and a writ was made in -486. In the Ban of Necrotic Arcane and of Corporeal Transference Arcane, magic received stricter laws, which remained in vigour for nearly eleven centuries.

The Ban, however, was by no means popular in many groups, and to this day, cults abound which delve into the forbidden lore, unwittingly endangering not only themselves, but the very essence of the world.


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Fire and Mana

**Chapter Fourteen: Fire and Mana**

_Late Winter 607, Auchindoun, Dreanor_

"I never thought we would meet under such circumstances, Chieftain Kilrogg."

"I don't want your compassion, your arrogance or your pity, human. You were the strong in this fight, but I don't have to play the human dance of words with you."

The two commanders – one human, one orc, one the victor and the other the vanquished - stared at each other over the table. Kilrogg Deadeye's state was grim – he had fought a grim delaying action by joining his people in their mad dash towards Swiftblade's lines, and had been injured as a result. The presence of chains and two of the largest knights of Swiftblade retinue on the orc, in the human general's own tent, was indicative of the state of things.

Danath, who stood next to Swiftblade, let out a low growl. "Stay your tongue, orc, or I'll have it cut off."

Swiftblade gave no sign of his thoughts. In his heart of hearts, he thought largely as Danath did – years of hatred and fighting had only crystallized his thoughts on the matter – but he also knew that, had he been captured by orcs, he'd be anything but the model prisoner, and wouldn't stand on ceremony. He let Kilrogg Deadeye's tone wash over him and vanish.

"Your troops put up a good fight, I'll admit that." The general said. "However, the last attack was too direct, and too disorganized. That was your death knell."

"And you knew it'd happen. You knew what we'd do." The orc replied, and his tone was that of hard facts. Anger bubbled, but also a sort of exasperated resignation. "Our strength became our curse, once again."

There was nothing to say to that. Swiftblade, in fact, had counted on the orcish bloodlust to madden the enemy. His strikes had been designed to confuse the enemy, denying it kills, enraging it. And then, a concerted effort by hidden dwarven sappers and human wizards had blown a hole in the wall, allowing the enemy to meet him head-on.

He had counted the enemy would. He had prepared his army for that. And the orcs had not disappointed him, charging at them, hundreds strong, over the open field. They had been largely picked off by his archers and ballista, and the ones who had survived the volleys had been unable to resist the onslaught of knights and footmen which poured into them.

With the main force routed and scattered, it had been easy to invest Auchindoun, his elite rangers and scouts destroying the remaining pockets with ease. The Alliance then took control of Auchindoun.

But not for long. A day, perhaps two. Only long enough to make the place utterly indefensible. As the two commanders met, dwarves and mages and human workers were hard at work crippling the once-mighty orcish fortress. Then they would fleet back north on the ships, which were being quickly repaired from their damage during the battle.

"Yes." Swiftblade stated at last. "Your anger, your rage, is easy to use against you all. This is why you won the First War, but also why you lost the Second."

"You humans don't know how close you came to defeat."

"Oh, Chieftain, I DO know. I was at Whitefort. I saw the end looming in front of me and mine." Swiftblade countered earnestly.

It had been so bad, at one, point, that he had almost rushed to slay his own family – his wife, son, unborn daughter – to prevent them from the cruelty of the orcs. And it had sometimes been his nightmare to do so, only to have the Horde fall apart soon after…

Deadeye grunted. "Well, human, I'm here and you're here. So now what?" He asked bluntly.

"You come back with us. We can't have you giving away our disposition, chieftain. You will come with us to the Portal, and we will send you to Azeroth." The man said simply. The orc, on the other hand, seemed fairly disgusted.

"Ah, to your benevolent camps." The orc said with venom.

And there Swiftblade had nothing to say. Even though he knew that the alternative would only make the Alliance as bad as the Horde, even though he had ultimately stood with the plan, there was something in him which disliked the idea of keeping so many in captivity only for being orcs. It didn't sit well with him at all. And, yet, was there any alternative?

"Yes. Until we can find a way to integrate you into our world. Guards, take the Chieftain with you. He is my personal guest as long as he is with me, and shall be treated as such. Understood." He gave the two knights a quick glance while saying so. Both of them bowed.

"As you command, milord." One said, and Kilrogg was ushered out. Before he went, however, he turned to the human who had defeated him for one last time, and gave a nod. Then he was gone. As soon as he did, Swiftblade slumped more comfortably on his campaign chair.

"If I had brought luxury like wine or ale, I'd drink it, Light." He muttered. Beside him, Danath seemed amused.

"This from the man who managed to defeat a whole fortress with less than a thousand dead and wounded." The powerful melee fighter grunted with a chuckle, stroking his beard. "No need for humility with the orc. You've surpassed him."

Swiftblade shrugged. He could not tell that Kilrogg Deadeye had masterminded the raid which had destroyed Grand Hamlet. A young Swiftblade had seen it, and been terrified nearly to death, before survival had taken precedence. As much as he had grown over the last quarter century since then, that memory – those impressions – would remain.

"So…now what, general?" Danath mused. "This'll hurt them, but they've got the advantage here. We're barely holding up as is, lad."

"And since when has being outnumbered and pressed stopped us, my good Danath?"

A short laugh. "Good point. But, still, the question remains… now what?"

That was a good question, Swiftblade admitted. The Alliance Expeditionary Forces were, pound for pound, clearly superior to the Horde on Dreanor. And it seemed that the armies here were far from the numbers of the Azerothian Horde. Swiftblade imagined that, as Khadgar had surmised, that the Horde had sent nearly all of its warriors to conquer the continent. Now, there was only this Shadowmoon and a handful of lesser clans.

Still, it was their world, and they did have some numbers. Swiftblade knew that they wouldn't be able to win a war of attrition on Dreanor. He thought that Turalyon knew that, as well. At least, he hoped the paladin did.

Where, then, did that leave them all?

"We'll just have to trust in the Light to guide us, my friend." Swiftblade mused. "There's nothing else for us but follow out orders."

"Don't start spouting that Silver Hand nonsense now. I like it better when you give clear orders, not religious sentiment." Danath noted. The other man smiled at this, and rose from his chair. He paced a few steps, then stopped.

"We'll carry out our order. We smash this place so that they can't use it for a good while. However, have the dwarves stash a few devices here and there." He said at last. "The kind that don't get noticed."

Danath grinned. "Another feint?"

"Let us call it insurance and leave it at that, shall we?" Swiftblade mused idly. He noticed he was talking with his commander's voice, and stopped himself. "Just a feeling I have… that we might be back here very soon."

The immense human gave a nod and started for the tent flap, but just turned a moment.

"Oh, and general?"

"Yes?"

"That was one fight that'll send shivers up those orcish spines. I loved it."

* * *

_Late Winter 607, Elwynn-Westfall Border, Azeroth_

Vedran regretted leaving Sunshire only two days after he had done so.

Going on an adventure, going to help his mother, had been a good idea at the time. It had seemed like the right thing to do as far as he was concerned. With his father gone to fight the Horde, wasn't it his duty, as the eldest son, to protect her? It had been one of the thoughts which had convinced him to act.

He'd learned, since his family had settled in the castle, everything about it and Sunshire. He knew the guards, the servants, the merchants who visited with wares to sell to the mighty Duke and the beautiful Duchesse. It had been easy for him to fool the guards, to put on his leather armour, take his sword and shield, go on his horse and ride away before anyone was the wiser.

It had been fine for the first day. On the second, however, it had become harder to bear.

The rain came falling down, cold and hard, soaking him and his provisions, forcing him to wait it out in the wilderness. It lasted so long that, when it did stop, he found that it was too late for him to continue to any of the coaching inns. He settled in for the night.

Barely managing to make a fire, he then discovered that his food had been transformed into distasteful slop, and he promptly threw it away. It was only when his stomach began to grumble loudly that he began to realize that, distasteful or not, it had still been food. The cold night had been a very hungry one.

Many days had passed since then. And, as Vedran made his way into Westfall, he knew that his father would be highly critical of him. He had heard his father tell him of his many campaigns as a soldier during the First War, of the cold nights and poor meals, the fear and the anger. And here was Vedran, looking haggard because of a few nights on the road.

"Pathetic. Completely pathetic. If Mother saw me now, I Father saw me…" he lamented as he made his way up the dirt trail. A voice told him that, if his parents did indeed see him, they might not be so kind to him. That, in fact, the punishment would be harsh and severe. "I never thought it would be that hard…"

And there, the inward voice told him, lay the problem. His father, even his mother, had gone through the Exodus, had struggled through the early years of settlement with little. Vedran had never known want. There had always been servants, good food, warmth. His return to Azeroth had been on a military vessel, and his room had been furnished when they moved into Castle Swiftblade.

There had never been any problem. Never been a need to think about those. Why should he, a wealthy nobleman, worry about such trifles.

"Father was right," he muttered, "Real life is different from castle life."

"More'n you think, boy. More'n you think."

Vedran spotted the men just as they got up from behind bales of hay, and cursed himself for not noticing. One of the first thing his father and his sword teachers had told him was to be aware of one's surroundings. That they had snuck up on him only increased the shame he felt over it all.

There was nothing really striking about those men. They looked rather filthy, wearing ordinary clothing and sporting clubs or used swords. One thing he did notice, however, was that they all wore a red bandanna on their person. The group's way of announcing its unity? He couldn't tell, but he gripped his sword tightly.

The one who seemed to be the leader nodded towards it. "Oh, pretty lil' blade there. I can tell that's no ordinary blacksmithin' that did this one. You a merchant's son or somethin', boy?"

"I am no merchant's son, bandit!" he said proudly. A voice inside of him hurriedly told him that pride was the worst way to go about the situation, yet that voice never reached his cursed mouth. "I am the son of Aerth Swiftblade, Duke of Sunshire!"

This seemed to stop them an instant, but the effect didn't seem to be exactly what Vedran was expecting. Instead of fear, it seemed to harden them. His father's name seemed to bring a dark cast to them. The leader turned a much more malevolent gaze upon him.

"Aerth Swiftblade? The leader of House Swiftblade, one of the mightiest members of the House of Nobles?" The man said icily. Vedran was so taken aback by the vitriol in the man's voice that his wits actually failed him a moment. He simple nodded, finding himself dumbfounded.

"Then you're outta luck, boy. See, happens that one of our goals is to take the House of Nobles and that dratted King of ours down one day. And that means…"

Vedran was already drawing his sword. He knew what the discussion was leading to. With a sharp tug, he snapped his horse forward, and slashed with his sword. The bandit fell back a moment, but charged forward with his two underlings. With a swift move, Vedran clapped his buckler on, and met the blow coming to him head-on.

"Eafirae!" he shouted, and a burst of magical flame exploded from his blade, striking his opponent. The man fell back with a yell, and the others hesitated.

That hesitation was his only chance, Vedran knew. He wheeled about again, and yelled his horse into a full charge, right through them. The horse neighed, and rumbled, galloping in the road. The bandits seemed to be recovering themselves, but weren't particularly angered by the speedy departure.

"They have horses of their own." He told himself, cursing. The Light wasn't with him today. He knew that his horsemanship was still far from great, no match for someone who'd have used it to attack people on the roads.

'If your horse becomes an hindrance, let it go where it will be of use. A speeding horse can be an excellent decoy.' His father had told him, only months before. He had decided that the advice had merit in the past, and he found himself agreeing in the present. He turned a bend which had been carved into a low hill, and saw bales of hay underneath. He jumped.

He rolled downhill, his armour and the rock battering his body, but he found himself on solid soil quickly. He barely felt any pain, however, as he excitedly looked about. A movement caught his eye. There, near the hay, a farm girl stood there, looking at him like he was some demon surging from the ether. He supposed there was some truth to it.

"I…I know this looks… but actually…" he mumbled, and then his ears picked up sounds. Hooves. Horses. Many of them. His intuition, he knew, had been right. "In truth, there is no time!"

Instinct dictated his next actions more than clear thinking. He grabbed the dumbfounded girl and, with a surge of his legs, crashed into the base of the hay, slashing the cord holding it together. The hay fell upon them both, and he found himself on top of the woman.

This developed a problem he hadn't anticipated. Although young, Vedran had seen just enough, had just enough wits, to realize what this all may look like. Although he was thirteen years of age, he looked slightly older, about the girl's age, and his hasty action and present dispositions only made things worse. It would be easy for the girl to misinterpret things.

The girl tried to scream, but he muffled her voice with his hand. He listened to the galloping sounds, hearing them as they came close, hesitated, then began to fade. Still, he struggled to pin the peasant down a few moments more, struggling against her until he heard nothing else. He then immediately let the girl go.

"Wait, wait!" he said as she began to bolt. "There's a reason for all of this!" he tried, grabbing her arm.

It was at that moment that something hit him, sending him sprawling. Groggily, he stared up to find a large man with leathery skin and sharp eyes glaring down at him, holding a pitchfork levelled at his throat.

"A reason, son? Let's hear it." The man said, and his voice was sharper than a blade. The man's eyes narrowed. "And let me tell ya, it better be one good bit of explainin'."

Vedran cursed.

'What foolishness. Is that what an adventure is?' he wondered, as he opened his mouth to speak.

* * *

_Late Winter 607, Near the Dead Mines, Azeroth_

"Of all the plans you could have come up with, Patriarch, I can't say this one comforts me." Drek'Thar said as he stared at the entrance. Thornfeet could only grin a bit wanly. He wasn't especially certain of his action, and of the outcome – the spirits could sometimes be very mysterious about such things.

"Still, I believe we must try. Their strength can be very useful. We both know that."

"And we both know that their appetites can be just as strong as their fists. I don't wish my end to be in an ogre's belly!" The other shaman muttered, and yet he did not seem to be inclined to leave. As nervous as their four, younger companions, he seemed intent on following Thornfeet's lead.

This had the effect of both touching and exasperating the aging orc. Although his knowledge of the spiritual world might be the greater amongst them all, Thornfeet was sometimes seized with the need to remind them that he had once been only a mediocre necrolyte, one who had survived by running blindly.

Another side of him wondered, after one and a half decades, if saying this would change anything. 'This,' he mused to himself with sardonic irony, 'might be the fate all who lead others share: what we were before leading means nothing to out followers.'

Still, he was forced to admit that he was a bit on edge. Anyone would be, he knew, when about to call out to a band of renegade Ogres and ask for their aid.

Ogres had once been servants of the Horde. In some places, they still were. On Dreanor, they had to be. However, after the humans and their Alliance had defeated Doomhammer at Blackrock Spire, many had drifted off, relinquishing their old role, weakening the Horde even further. Some orcs said that the Alliance had won at the Portal because so many Ogres had betrayed the Horde.

Thornfeet held a more down-to-earth view of that. He thought that, although the lesser numbers of Ogres had aided the humans and their allies, it wouldn't have changed the Outcome. The Alliance, at that time, outnumbered them, had the initiative, and were well-supplied. Even though he wasn't a tactician, he could see what that had to inevitably lead.

Now, however, that which angered so many of his brethren might become a useful – if volatile – asset.

The cave was well-hidden by pines, having been spotted only through their spiritual sight. He knew that the Ogres, however, could see them quite well, and were probably observing them attentively.

"Here we go, I suppose." He sighed. Drek'Thar shrugged, there being nothing else to say to that.

"I salute you, my old allies!" he shouted, "There's no need to be wary of us. We're not from Grim Batol, and I don't wish you ill. I'd like to talk to you, and ask for your help, if you'll let me ask directly!"

There was silence. Only the sounds of the wild and the wind could be heard drifting through. After a while, one of the Shamans accompanying them stirred hesitantly, and yet rather hopefully.

"Maybe they didn't hear. Maybe they're…" He began quickly, but he was stifled as towering forms emerged from the pines.

There were three of them. Ten feet tall, two-headed, with horrendous girth and fearsome muscles, the ogres stomped towards the orcs from the cave. Their very feet shook the ground and they came close, towering over the six orcs. As the two parties eyed each other, Drek'Thar gave the young orc who had spoken a glance.

"They heard." He said laconically. Thornfeet, however, said nothing, only looked at the Ogres expectantly. Finally, the biggest Ogre stepped forward a bit more.

"What you want, orc?" the right head ask. "Wanna fight?"

"No. But I want to talk about fighting." The shaman answered. He kept a calm voice. The last thing he needed was to deal with angry Ogres. The Ogres, for their part, seemed slightly confused by this.

"No fight, but talk fight?" The left head muttered. "It make no sense." The right said. Both heads nodded at this firmly. Thornfeet could feel the slight beginnings of a headache. This was not only dangerous, this was sure to become tedious as well.

"I want to fight…" he began, and realized that what he'd said could be interpreted in the worst possible way. Even as he realized this, he felt the Ogre shift, felt the fist clenching, and the spiritual waves he felt gave off a warning. He quickly called upon his inner spirit for aid, even as he stepped backward as quickly as he could.

He trip, falling on his behind, yet that saved him as an enormous fist which had smashed many well-armoured humans swung just above his unprotected head. His call to the spirits of nature, however, had been heard. From the ground, vines sprouted at an astounding pace, unsettling his adversary, and entangling him.

Thornfeet heard the dual exclamations, and knew that it would be only moments before surprise gave way to rage. He extended a hand towards the Ogre, and retreated inwardly.

"Wind, Nurturing Lifeblood of Mortals, hear my plea and smite my enemy." He called, and the wind answered, gathering beyond his hand and striking forward. Entangled and off-balanced, the ogre fell backward with an outraged yell.

This had only taken a few moments, and Ogres and Orcs alike gaped in bewilderment. The shamans, however, had been prepared for the occurrence better, and reacted more quickly, calling upon the spiritual world.

"KILL'EM!" The tangled Ogre yelled in a rage. The other two lumbered forward, only hesitate as all the shamans raised their own hands in front of them, pearly hues issuing from all orc arms. Thornfeet knew where the battle would go, and it wasn't what he intended to see.

"Stop!" he ordered the surprised shamans. "This isn't why we came! Remember our goals!"

"I understand our goals, Patriarch." Drek'Thar replied, frowning. "But they sent their ambassadors and we failed to talk to them."

"No, we didn't." The shaman mused as he shook his head. "The discussion hasn't even begun."

"And why not?"

"Because these aren't the ambassadors." The first orc shaman in decades stated, giving a bough a steady stare. "Show yourself, Ogre-magi. You can't fool my eyes. We've proven our power, haven't we?"

The bough immediately rippled, and a shape appeared. It looked for all the world like a normal ogre, except that its skin was blue and – most importantly – its eyes shone with dangerous intelligence. An Ogre-magi. A spellcasting Ogre created by Gul'Dan's experiments. Few of them had survived the war, it was said. Each one which had survived was seen as a danger, even within the Horde. Both heads grinned down at Thornfeet.

"When did you learn?" the right head asked. "Did our spell give us away?"

Thornfeet shook his head. "It did, but I knew it beforehand. No normal Ogre can hold a large band of Ogres alone. But an Ogre-magi can easily do it."

The blue giant seemed amused by this. "Impressive, very impressive." The left head said. "You shamans are as potent as the rumours say. I admit, all this has piqued my curiosity. Can you release my people?"

Thornfeet asked the spirits, and the vines retreated. The fallen Ogre stood up angrily, but a gesture from the Ogre-Magi stopped him cold. The blue-skinned spellcaster looked at the wary shamans with a serious look, and finally extended his hand.

"My name is Hal'Garr. I welcome you to my haven, shaman. What can we talk about?"

"Something you won't even believe is even sane to entertain." Thornfeet said earnestly, and took the proffered hand, standing up with the Ogre's help.

'One step done.' he told himself. 'How many more to go?'

* * *

_Late Winter 607, Violet Citadel, Dalaran_

Uther gave a wry grin as he looked at the Crown Prince. Arthas' eyes seemed ready to leap out of their sockets. He couldn't blame him, either. Although Lordaeron's capital city of Whitefort was a masterpiece of religious and architectural elegance, the Violet Citadel was something few could forget.

Dozens of slender towers, all with wide arches and balconies, rose amongst the paved and clean streets. Surrounding those towers – which houses the greatest libraries and academies which mankind had ever owned in all of long history – were lesser towers, where archmages and their apprentices lived, and the many houses where non-spellcasting citizens lived.

But none of that could impress as much as the Tower of the Kirin Tor. Three times as high as the highest of the surrounding towers, it was a feat of construction only made possible because of the many powerful spells fused into it. Around this great tower, there floated purplish stones, raw mana given form and shape. It was the Kirin Tor's seat of power, and had been for nearly two millennia.

Lightbringer had been a priest and a warrior all of his life, and had never trusted arcane magic. But even his personal disdain did not manage to lessen the awe he felt when he looked at the ancient, powerful magocratic capital.

He pointed. "The Violet Citadel, lad. The center of all human magic." He mused to his charge.

"Uther…its…incredible…" the blond prince said, his voice halting.

"Yes, lad. It is. Light keep me, I should not be saying this, but it IS beautiful." The paladin answered. He then frowned. "Remember, Prince Arthas. The Citadel is usually a place of arcane study and contemplation, and is usually rather peaceful. But that peace is thin now."

"Isn't it the same everywhere, Uther?" The prince asked. "My father says that all of mankind has suffered from the wars with the Horde."

"His Majesty King Terenas speaks wisely," The aging paladin mused solemnly, "Yet I fear that this city might be the crux of a greater problem. It is why I am going here – for news."

The prince frowned. "I do see scars on the buildings. Like they were in some battle."

Uther raised an eyebrow and scanned. To his mild surprise he found Arthas' assessment to be true: some of the buildings were blackened as if from fire, and there were many people working to restores this or that building, repaving this street. It seemed things were taking a turn for the worse in the city of sorcery.

Wind blew from the north, chilling them despite the heavy clothing they wore. Dangerous or not, the paladin knew he would not mind some good hot soup and a place to sleep. The roads were dangerous at night and, although he was confident enough in his own abilities, he didn't want to risk the Crown Prince of Lordaeron in something he could avoid.

"Come, sorcerers and wizards are an ilk apart from us, but I know a few whom I trust." He said, kicking his horse to a gallop.

Passing the gates became an ordeal. It should have been an easy task, and one which he could have made them pass incognito. However, one of the guards had the misfortune of asking about the prince a bit tactlessly, and Arthas had the misfortune of responding in the only way in which he had been raised to do.

"I am Arthas Menethil, son of King Terenas Menethil of Lordaeron!" he said proudly, and Uther might have slain him right there, had he not immediately gotten a hold of his temper.

The guards were sceptical, but the Prince took no time in dispelling their doubts, showing the crest of the Lordaeron Royal House of Menethil. Shocked to say the least, the guards ordered the gates opened with haste, and bowed low as the proud prince and the irritated Paladin rode through them and into the city.

"Prince Arthas," the Paladin whispered to his charge as they wound their way through the streets, weighing his words carefully. "May I suggest that, if at all possible, you refrain from such outburst form now on? We can't afford to attract unnecessary attention."

"But, Uther, he was treating me like some… some suspicious traveller of common sort!" the young noble bristled.

"Which is a very sane way to ask about a traveller who comes to his city when the gates are closed and as night is falling." Lightbringer answered. "Doing that is no crime. If you wish to become a King such as His Majesty Terenas is, you must learn to cope with such things."

The prince grumbled something under his breath, but kept quiet all the same, for which Lightbringer was quietly glad. Still, he endeavoured to make his way to Antonidas' tower before the guards alerted all the city – including its dangerous element – that King Terenas' heir was present.

Antonidas' tower was a squat, unimposing edifice, and the prince seemed deflated upon seeing it. At the sight, the paladin grinned.

"You forget, my Prince, that Lord Antonidas is a powerful Archmage. I assure you that the outside means nothing." He then knocked on the simple door… to suddenly find himself inside a well-furnished room with a fire and couches. Arthas recoiled from the very change.

It was then that Antonidas himself appeared. He seemed glad to see them, and bowed to the Prince most profusely. There was a haggard sense to the elderly man, however. Things had not gone well from the last time the paladin and the archmage had met.

Food was served and, for all of his princely attributes, Arthas dug into it with gusto. Lightbringer, however, kept his attention on his old comrade.

"I see that the city has been attacked." He noted sombrely. The archmage nodded wearily.

"Yes, attacked, by demons and imps called from the Great Dark itself." The old man replied. "It was a very powerful attack, made with the darkest of the arcane arts. And it didn't stop there, my good paladin."

"So, this conspiracy you told me about…"

"All too real, and all too hidden. Rena has been leading a deep investigation with some of our best warmages. But all these past months of scrying and battling cultists, have given us very little to go on. Even the greatest of the Kirin Tor are getting rather edgy, skittish."

There was something to the archmage which chilled Uther Lightbringer in that moment. It spoke of deals he disliked, of suspicions raised, of intolerable truths uncovered. The paladin wanted to delve into that further, yet held back. Antonidas, wizard of not, was honest. The man would tell Lightbringer in due time.

"Because of this…because of this, many of the wizards that the Expedition Forces could have used are being held here, to bolster you. The coincidence is rather convenient." Lightbringer pointed out. Antonidas chuckled.

"There you are right. It is far too convenient. And I think that the two ARE intimately linked. However, there is one point I am uncertain of, and that is: which is the decoy? The war in Dreanor? Or the battle here?"

The paladin looked at the young prince, who listened yet seemed lost by the thread of the conversation. He'd have to be filled in somewhat, but only at a later date. 'Here is reality, Arthas. Here is where things become complicated.' He thought. He hoped the young man learned that lesson well.

"Have you talked to your order, my friend?" Antonidas asked.

"I have. And have you found something which can convince them?" Uther retorted.

"Rena has. You will find it… very convenient."

The paladin smiled. "Then, I can't wait to see it."

* * *

_Late Winter 607, Dust Crags, Wildlands_

Argal Grimfrost hated to let himself dream, but he admitted that he found himself doing just that. For the past several years, the army and peons and orclings he'd managed to lead to the valley in the Dust Crag had grown strong. They had put the war and the misery of their curse behind them as much as they could, and were building.

Building! He could barely believe it himself. He'd never been much of a builder. For most of his life, he never wanted to be. He had been a warrior, and a good one. Even by the time he had learned to despise his curse, learned to control it, his talents had been ones dedicated to war.

Eight years… and now, the space had been taken. Cragwall had become the central hub of quite a few smaller settlements, all comfortably far from the Alliance or the remnants of the Horde. They had learned the basics of farming and herding, and some were now smiting tools rather than axes.

"Have we forgotten war, Kerak?" he mused to the towering orc walking the dirt path beside him. The former Horde champion, once feared for his martial prowess, had been changed beyond words by Queen Proudmoore. Now, he was someone who thought rather wisely, if plainly.

"No, Chieftain. We can't forget it." He replied at once. "I've swung an axe too long to forget it."

"I suppose you make sense." He sighed.

"We do have some good hopes. We have something else than war in our souls. I doubt the curse of bloodlust we all share can't like it much." The great orc gave a triumphant grin at that.

He spotted two orclings arguing with each other, until an orc that Grimfrost assumed to be their father broke it up quickly, with quiet admonishments. It struck him harder when he realized that the orc had once been one of his personal guard, a fierce grunt of great size and rage.

Building, he realized, was changing his people. Hellscream would argue that it was for the worse. 'To the Beyond with Hellscream!' he snarled inwardly, 'Young fool's making a mess of things, and I won't let him drag my people along with him!'

He continued to walk through the dusty trail leading towards the fortified outer walls of Cragwall when something caught his eye. In that instant, it seemed like he was back eight years, back on one of the many battlefields, looking at something he was all too familiar with.

"Kerak…" he mused.

"Yes. Smoke. From Lerkan Village." They both looked at the plume a moment, and then looked at each other grimly.

"Too much smoke." Grimfrost muttered.

"A raid." Kerak grunted in answer. And then the horns sounded. The guards had seen it and reacted to something that they, too, had been made all to aware during their war years.

Grimfrost didn't waste more time. He nodded to Kerak, and both started towards the nearest armoury. Although the Direfang Clan had settled and moved beyond the immediate needs of warfare, most had been warriors, and being prepared for battle was something no one had forgotten.

They found an armoury within moments, and Kerak, not finding an axe large enough for himself, took two normal axes which grunts used two-handed in each hand, while Grimfrost only took one. His aged body protested at the strain – was he growing that old, he wondered? – but his mind shouted any protests down.

Others had come, too. Half a dozen were already arming themselves, and other joined them. By the time Grimfrost left, nearly a dozen followed him. By the time they gathered at the gates, he could see they were almost a hundred, with some more arriving quickly.

"A hundred troops. If its only a raid, it'll be enough. Kerak! Gather more, just in case. Ruk Narok, my warriors! Let them see the might of the Direfang Clan!" he shouted, lifting his axe high. The orcs cheered wildly, and rushed with him through the open gates.

"The shamans?" He asked one grunt as they marched up the dusty trail with all the speed they could manage.

"No, Chieftain. They're not with us. They went to meditate today. We couldn't find them."

Grimfrost cursed softly, then shrugged. There was no helping it. He would have preferred to have the shaman's nature-based magic, but he knew how to do without it. Orcs didn't need magic to fight well.

The road was a long one. The village, albeit near, was still over an hour's march away. As the group came closer, clumps of other groups converged, swiftly placing themselves under Grimfrost's command. At one hundred when they left their small capital, the group swelled threefold when it came near the attack site.

Grimfrost thought it would be enough. The village had been new, only a few families. An easy target to raiders. Still, if there were raiders in the area, and they'd struck this close to the capital, it meant the Dust Crags' safety wasn't absolute anymore.

All thoughts of worry disappeared, however, when the group came to Lerkan.

Or, rather, what remained of Lerkan.

The small village never had the chance to grow beyond a dozen buildings, and their fortifications were never expanded before that day. Still, plans had been made, and Grimfrost himself had visited the hopeful families who had settled on the rather fertile grounds to make a new life for themselves.

No more. Now, only charred husks of buildings, and the blackened bones of orcs and cattle, feasted the eye. Only the smells of burnt wood and flesh scratched the nose. It was a sight he'd seen many times, one he had ordered to be done more than once. Against the Dreanei, the Humans, the Elves, the Dwarves… even his fellow orcs.

But this was different. Those were his people, his clan. People who'd decided to give up the Horde's violent path.

"Search this place. Everywhere. Look for survivors." He said, although chances were nil, he knew. Survivors would have called out by now. "And look for clues on who did this, so that we may make a memorable retribution unto them."

He noticed the anger in his voice, and tried to contain it. He had known that this might happen. He had just hoped that it wouldn't happen so soon. He had hoped for a few more years.

"Chieftain! Here!" a voice called, and Grimfrost sped towards one of the charred huts. There, a scene of carnage awaited him.

It appeared that some of the villagers had been able to arm themselves before the raid took place, and these had fought fiercely. Bodies lay strewn where they had fallen, some of them burned to a crisp, others pitifully recognizable. But it wasn't this sight – painful as it was to his tired eyes – which gained his attention. It was the other bodies.

He scowled as he looked at the three orcs who had certainly not been part of the Direfang Clan. Their markings were wrong for it. So it was orcs. Now, all that remained was to find out where they were from. He bent to inspect one of the bodies. His eyes, used to seeing telltale signs, spotted it immediately.

He went over and searched the other corpses, and found the same sign: a tooth had been ripped out. Voluntarily, by the looks of them. He rose and gave his orders in a clear, harsh voice.

"Bury the bodies, and throw these three in a ditch somewhere." he said. "And then, spread the word: Grimfrost asks for two thousand grunts to come with him and give retribution."

"To who, Chieftain?" one asked. The former Warlord gave a vague glare, his mind wandering a bit.

"To people who were always a disgrace to begin with!" he snarled, and left the charred town, his heart afire, ideas blooming.

The warlord in him, he realized, had been waiting.

* * *

_Late Winter 607, Over the Alliance-held territories, Dreanor_

The wind of Dreanor was sharper, Deathwing found, yet carried a greater humidity than that of the world he had flown over for over fifteen thousand years. It was more primordial, more ancient in its feel. Less tainted, in some ways.

The gargantuan dragon hated this air with all of his being. It reminded him of another primordial world, one where a great empire of elves sundered the world in its arrogance and madness. One where he was someone else, a being filled with ridiculous compassion and pride in being the Aspect of Earth. Neltharion. That was his name.

"Enough." He rumbled to himself. "That fool was nothing compared to me. And this is no time to reminisce about the past. Not when the present is proving to be so… interesting."

"Great One?" One of his flight said. Cautiously. Timidly. Respectfully. His brood knew never to interrupt his musings without showing proper difference. Those few who had forgotten had led quite shortened lives. "We come upon the Alliance stronghold."

Deathwing looked, and he saw that this was so. Hasty but sturdy battlements surrounded a veritable city of tents of half-built structures. This was one of the Alliance's main camps, the one holding the Horde back from crossing the passes. It was a thorn in Ner'Zul's side. And amusement to the dragon.

Horns were sounding. Of course. Elves were serving as sentries, mages were scrying the area for enemies. They'd know of his attack well before his flight – more than one hundred black dragons – could come within striking distance.

It suited the leviathan fine. He hadn't come within striking distance to mount a sneak attack. No, this was to be an attack to strike fear in the hearts of the soldiers of the Alliance, to demoralize them. He personally didn't think that they would flee – the high elves, the dwarves, the humans and even the gnomes had shown a certain stubbornness once implanted anywhere – but they would hesitate.

He found the Aeries quickly. There were four of them, crude things compared to those of the Northeron mountains, but he could see that a few had already taken flight, and that others were preparing. Cannons were being loaded, arrows were being nocked as the soldiers – as mere insects from Deathwing's sigh – scurried about, preparing for battle.

"Let them fear us, my sons and daughters!" he roared, "Let them remember us of the Black!" Roars answered him, thundering down. Seeing that his enemies had yet to get ready, the former Aspect attacked, and his people followed.

Shouts were many below, but screams were extremely few. Although the fear his mere presence allowed was potent, the people he was attacking had all suffered many attacks. They were afraid, but they did not scattered.

Thoroughly amused by now, Deathwing shrugged off the arrows shot at him and opened his mouth, issuing a stream of white-hot fire from his entrails, incinerating all beneath him – tents, supplies, horses, men.

None of it mattered. There was no distinction as the dragons began to burn the proud little bastion to cinders.

Elven archers began to pour arrows towards his brood, and some of the younger dragons roared in pain. Not so Deathwing. He had weathered the arrows of stronger elves of the past, and had come away victorious. These were a trifle he overlooked. What his metal plating couldn't stop, his inner fire melted before any damage was done.

Mages, too, cast spells to hinder him, and yet none of the paltry human magic could faze him anymore. Spells were of no consequence to one who had been born out of the Titans' overwhelming powers.

Amidst the shouts, screams of pain and roaring orders, amidst the confusion, voices rang out more clearly than others. At one point, a human in armour was rallying the archers with shouts and grim gestures, while a man in robes did the same with the mages. Yet, there was one he heard stronger than these.

"FOR NORTHERON! FOR THE AERIE PEAK!" A voice erupted in rumbling dwarven, strong enough to drive through the cacophony.

There was no surprise on the dragon's part when he saw the groups of Griphons and their dwarven riders streaming towards him and his kin. Deathwing had rarely participated in the last wars – directly at least, preferring to let the red dragons be forced into the fighting while watching their precious queen suffer. But he knew that when the Horde showed dragons, the Alliance came with their dragon riders.

Rather, it was the way they came at him which surprised the leviathan. They were coming boldly, and the one leading them was advancing far in front of the lines. Roaring, one of the dragons flew to challenge the impertinent duo.

One moment, the dragon seemed ready to overwhelm its smaller foe. The next, a screech, a shout, a bright flash of light, all occurred one after the other, and the dragon gave an agonized roared and crashed down below, as the dwarf continued with his gryphon unimpeded.

"HAVE AT YE ALL, YE BEASTS!" The dwarf thundered, and he charged into the ranks, even as the two sides met in a crash of rage and hate.

Deathwing easily dispatching three of the dwarves and their mounts, found himself most impressed with the leader. Already, a second black dragon had joined the first, and the two were hammering on a third with abandon.

A worthy opponent? The dragon doubted it. Only his fellow Aspect could defeat him, and even those adversaries were now diminished, weakened.

Still…

The moment of lingered, and cost Deathwing the initiative. The dwarf, seeing the behemoth, didn't seem frightened, but rather roused to a high fury. The gryphon came the dragon's way, even as arrows and cannon fire began to tear at Deathwing's lesser kin. It didn't seem affected by the fear dragons usually generated on these pitiful beings.

"Cursed betrayer! Have at ye!" The dwarf cried solemnly, and his hammer streaked towards and smote the dragon. The leviathan, having born the brunt of many such weapons, didn't even try to dodge the attack.

It struck. And, to the dragon's enraged surprise, it actually hurt, the weapon's power searing through his thick armour, hurting him for one of the few times in the past centuries. The dragon roared, more in surprise than in actual pain, but then plunged towards the small dwarf with all of its might.

The dive had been predicted, however, and the great claws missed the smaller prey, instead feeling the pain of the magical hammer again. This time however, the pain was nothing next to Deathwing's sheer fury. He roared loud enough to shake the very mountains.

'Little, puny mortal fleshling!' he growled inwardly, his vision clouded by rage, 'No one – NO ONE – has ever mocked me! Ever! Not even Alexstraza could! You presume to command the skies? I am one with the skies since before your misbegotten servant race evolved to what it is!'

He called upon his magic, and launched a plethora of lightning bolts towards his enemy, striking it with all of his might the dwarf and gryphon somehow managed to evade most of the blow, but still reeled from it, unbalanced and in obvious pain. Deathwing roared with delight, his supremacy insured once again.

Even as he began casting another spell, however, he realized that many of the young dragons he'd led into battle were gone, having fallen or fled from battle. Cannon shells began to pummel at his hid, as did arrows. The burning Alliance bastion was fighting back, regrouping, as spells began to dance from mortal fingertips.

And yet, the bastion was burning. It was weakened, frightened. It was utterly off-balance. That was enough to satisfy the dragon at least.

And so, giving his tenacious little foe a baleful glance, the dragon crowed the order to retreat, and sped away from the battle. The humans and their allies would be calling for aid from Lordaeron, Azeroth and Dalaran, and that was all Deatheing wished for.

Aid Ner'Zul, he whom even Medhiv could never have matched?

He had better plans than that.

* * *

**Shadows of War – The Kingdom of Lordaeron**

The leading power of the Alliance, Lordaeron did not suffer as much as most of the other nations during the Second War. Despite Orgrimm Doomhammer's invasion of its southern shores – where the Azerothians dwelled – and the devastation of many of its northeastern territories, most of the realm survived nearly unscathed, and the country is nearly fully restored as of 606.

Despite its power within the Alliance and its growing supremacy on the political stage, the largest of the present human kingdoms still has problems. The heavy taxes, rationing, conscriptions and losses have left the nation with a weaker army than is necessary to fully guard its borders. Bandit groups are rife, and many frontier settlements have begun relying solely on their makeshift militia, and the people there consider themselves nigh-independent, a problem that the aged King Terenas acknowledges, yet finds himself unable to prevent.

With the added trouble of the Internment Camps – a position the King defends – and the large forces sent into Dreanor, it might be years before the people of Lordaeron once more gaze at the full splendour of their realm.


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Councils and Ploys

**Chapter Fifteen: Councils and Ploys**

Late Winter 607, The Devouring Sea, Dreanor

_Swiftblade would win this battle. He had to._

_As his sword clashed with that of another, the young man wondered how he'd come to this. How he, a man born to merchants, had managed to grow into a man with enough boldness to challenge a powerful noble for the hand of the woman he had decided to give his heart to._

_Sylphord Duraz had been betrothed to Eira Fregar, the two house patriarchs having decided that their bloodlines – and their monies - would be strengthened by the action. And it would certainly have gone that way, had the Horde never come. Things had changed, however. Outside, the Horde was fast approaching Sunshire's great walls, and yet the outside turmoil was nothing next to the personal combat the young knight was waging._

_Eira and he had met, and love had come, largely unbidden. The war going badly for Azeroth's army, she had challenged the betrothal, and he had become her champion. Duraz had accepted with a smug look, certain his refined skills would easily defeat the more haphazard ones the military had taught Swiftblade._

_When the blades had crossed, however, things did not happen to turn out that way._

_Duraz was skilled, of that there was no doubt. A strong man, he had great knowledge of the blade, and seemed to be leaping everywhere, ducking and dodging, stabbing and harassing. It was easy to understand why this man, with his agility and skill, could think that victory would come easily to him._

_But, even thought the noble knight landed two blows to the common knight's one, it was Swiftblade who was slowly beginning to drive back the other man under the gaze of twenty others of the Brotherhood, the eyes of the Fregar family, and that of the city's high priest._

_Duraz's style had been invented largely to intimidate, to impress his own superiority into the opponent's mind, crushing him before the first blow even fell. Swiftblade's style was made to fight, and hurt, as deeply and as permanently as possible. The younger, common-born man also had no fear of Duraz's antics. He had seen orcs charging him in all of their bloodlust and had stood and met them. After such moments, a duel held no fear._

_And so, when a blow struck, Swiftblade grunted, and continued to push, his uncouth but relentless style pushing his opponent back again and again, each blow intended to obliterate the opponent. He had come with the intent of winning. This, to him, was a battlefield. And mercy never existed on the battlefield._

_And so he gave his beloved a short look, and opened his mouth to shout at his weakening enemy…_

"Yield, Lord Duraz!" He shouted, and as he did he woke up in another place.

Or, to better put it, in another world entirely. After a moment of confusion, Swiftblade realized that he wasn't a twenty year old, landless knight, fighting for love, but a forty year old general, returning on ships from one more victorious, bloody, wearying battle.

He envied his younger self greatly at that moment.

The moist, slightly unnatural smell of Dreanor's seas filled his nostrils, and the man fought back a wave of nausea. Years of being forced aboard ships for innumerable operations and secret meetings had lessened his tendencies towards sea sickness, but hadn't dissipated it. As such, Swiftblade had actually eaten little, and had dragged himself around the ship looking like a lost soul.

He resolved to stay in bed, in his cabin, until they reached land. Then, and only then, would he feel sane about the entire situation.

There was a knock. A cursed, thrice-damned knock, followed by an hesitant voice.

"General Swiftblade?" the voice asked, and he recognized it as one of his younger adjutants. 'The older aides sent him, since they knew what I'd do if THEY did it.' He reasoned grumpily. 'Sir, I apologize if I am disturbing your rest…'

"You are. But I suppose I'll forgive you." He retorted, keeping himself from snapping. "What is it?"

"Commander Danath has asked you to please meet him in the ship's map room. He says its urgent."

Swiftblade had kept his eyes firmly closed, fighting a new surge of nausea. However, the last sentence made him open them. He sat up, and looked towards the shrouded door.

"He did, did he?" He mused. 'Strange.' He thought. 'Not his style to follow decorum this way.' "Very well. Have the Commander know that I will be with him as soon as I possible can."

He dressed quickly after that, and inwardly refused to put on his armour. It would be bad enough, he decided, if he were to be sick in front of his troops. To soil his own armour was unthinkable. So, after putting on a shirt and some boots, he quickly made his way to the map room, where the large man was waiting for him patiently. He saw that all of the captain-ranked people on the ship were also present.

"So, something I should know about, friends?" He couldn't help but ask. The mirth fell flat. Even Danath looked grim-faced. Swiftblade's mien shifted back to the mask he always showed when planning a battle. "Tell me everything."

Danath looked at the others a moment, then handed a rumpled piece of paper to him. "This arrived just now, from a gnomish flyer. It is not good news."

Swiftblade frowned, took the paper and began to read. It had been written by Turalyon himself, and as such was a dry text, to the point, easy to read. Far too easy to understand. There was no doubt about the validity of the letter. The seal was that of the High Admiral, and the writing was distinctively the grim paladin's.

"An attack upon our main offensive stronghold, by a swarm of Black Dragons." He muttered grimly. He nodded. "Its unexpected. I didn't know that the dragons were here in such numbers."

"At least it is only the blacks. Not the red ones. We only have to worry about half of them." A captain said.

Swiftblade thought about it. He had talked with Illadan Eltrass on the subject of the red dragons at the ending stage of the Second War. The elf leader had been adamant in pointing out that those of Alexstraza's brood had always been rather friendly and protective, quite unlike Deathwing's flight. The two had agreed that the red flight wasn't fighting to its full capacity.

"The dragons we fought during the war never fought so well." Danath intoned. "They were weaker, and dumber. Those dragons – from that letter, they fought with cold precision."

"Deathwing, eh?" Swiftblade mused. "A legend of the past come to haunt us. It all makes sense, in that case. If I had the Fallen Aspect and its driven brood, I'd also use that to strike fear into my enemies."

There was nothing he could do about them, either. He could plan for a land attack, and could integrate sea elements into his tactics. But the skies had never been his forte. There was little he could do to help in this battle. Except, perhaps, for one thing.

"Order all ships to make haste, no matter what." He ordered to the captain of the ship. "I want us back to our port in two days."

They looked at each other a moment, and then the captain saluted and left. He was already bellowing orders before the door to the map room was closed behind him. Danath grinned slightly for the first time.

"Thought of something, General?"

"Indeed, Commander. I thought of morale, and of the fact that we captured one of the most prominent orcs of the First and Second Wars. I was thinking of him, and his people. I was also thinking how these orcs, here, were not used to our ways." It was only then that he grinned. Danath chuckled as the other officers exchanged glance.

"I need to talk with Turalyon right now." He said, "I think we can actually use the situation to our advantage.

As he smiled, a small part of his mind noticed the nausea was all gone. The body was strange, in its own way.

* * *

Late Winter 607, Farmlands of the Violet Citadel, Dalaran

Uther stared around the remnants of the farm with a sad, solemn look. Here was a place which could be found in any of the human nations, no matter if they were of militaristic Stromgarde or magocratic Dalaran. A farmstead, made up of a sturdy house, a well, barns and several smaller stalls, it had enough fields and grazing grounds to show that it had enjoyed a certain amount of prosperity.

Those days were, as the paladin and archwizard Delado knew, over for the ones who had lived there. Now, only shattered buildings and burned fields remained to be seen. It was a terrible look for the aged warrior to see, made all the more terrible by the fact that he had grown used to it over the years.

"How many people lived here?" He asked the mage.

"The family itself – the parents, five children of varying age – and six farmhands. Or so the survivor told us." she answered, "You can see that this place was rather large for a farm. Enough muscle to keep bandit bands and even the occasional roving monster away."

"But not from this. The Light keep and embrace them." He said, closing his eyes a moment. He opened them soon enough, frowning, "And you are right. Something is wrong with this place. I can feel something here, and I cannot say I like it much." But what, exactly, was he feeling? It seemed necromantic, it seemed demonic. It was undecipherable.

"This is the sixth farmstead to be destroyed in this manner. The survivor we found said that there were at least twenty creatures. Far too many for them to handle."

Uther noted something in what Delado had been saying. "You keep talking about this survivor… you seem to give his testimony much credit. Were there not some evidence here?"

"Aside from the damage you see? No. The bodies were gone." She gave Uther a look. "You must know what it means."

He grimaced at the very thought. Yet, the wizard was right. He knew. "Necromancy, eh? Forbidden lore of old. Pacts with demons. How can I not know?"

As a former priest and as a Knight of the Silver Hand, Uther Lightbringer had always been a staunch opponents of those who would defile the dead and make them slaves, mockery of what they were. He had been angered and horrified when he had seen that several brave Knights of Azeroth's bodies had been transformed into the dreaded Death Knights. And over both the First and Second Wars, he'd seen reanimated hordes tearing through friend and loved one.

Necromancy. The very word reeked of corruption. If Dalaran was so corrupted, the entire northern lands were perhaps in very great danger. The paladin knew that, strategically, it was within easy reach of several other kingdoms: Gilneas, Stromgarde…Lordaeron.

A noise. Beneath him. The aging paladin barely had the time to look down before a greyish hand took hold of his boot. A disfigured head soon appeared, moaning fiercely, eyes lacking anything of the soul which had once been there.

Uther kicked the grasping hand off, taking a step back to heft his greathammer. As he was hefting it firmly with both hands, he saw that other noises had joined the first. The earth was crumbling as other shapes emerged. Beside him, Rena Delado was crouching a bit, her eyes half-closed.

"Twelve of them." She said. "Several too small to be adults." The horror of the implications went unspoken. The paladin was wise enough to know what it meant.

"I supposed the people never disappeared. They were waiting for us." He snapped, and gave the advancing undead a glare.

He gave a sudden cry, bellowing for the mercy of the Holy Light, and charged into the fray. A word of communion, a prayer amidst the undead, and his right hand glowed a golden hue, while he gave a mighty sing of his weapon, ripping what appeared to be a young woman – something he quickly forced away from his mind – in half.

Another undead – this time that of a strong man – was within reach, and attempted to assail him. He quickly closed the distance, and thrust his palm against the undead flesh. The result was immediate. The spell which would have begun healing a human quickly began to disintegrate the undead, as the powers of life destroyed the necromantic flesh. Within moments, the creature was a charred husk, unmoving.

Darts of pure, red-white light streaked towards two other of the undead, shattering them into pieces. Delado was still crouching, but her eyes were now intent as magical energies coursed between her hands. Her lips kept moving, certainly forming words of the arcane language.

Arcane power made many uncomfortable and, as a Knight of the Silver hand, Uther was no exception. He didn't however, have the folly to believe that being a magic user always meant one was cursed. And he never would say a mage was useless when in a battle. He knew better.

"I'm glad I left Prince Arthas to get coddled by that old fool Antonidas!" He remarked wryly. It lifted one concern – Arthas was as safe with the old man as he was in his chambers in Whitefort.

Delado responded by sending a searing streak of lightning into another undead. For his part, Uther shook his head and charged into the fray, his hammer swinging in all directions.

It wasn't long before the twelve undead zombies fell to their might. An ordinary wizard and paladin might have been caught, but neither of them were children, or inexperienced. Still, the thought that he had had to kill the bodies of an innocent family and that of five farmhands who – as far as he knew – had done no wrong in life – rankled deeply. One more reason to loathe anything to do with necromancy.

"They were waiting. Here." He said.

"Yes. For us? I doubt it, but certainly for people involved against them." Delado said, rising to her feet with a sigh. "I think it was like a missive, a letter of sorts. Something waiting to give us a message."

The explanation struck him to his soul, yet there was nothing the paladin could say to that. It spoke of an evil much like the Horde had been for the land. But this was a different evil. It was less plain… more insidious.

"Do you still wish for my aid, Lady Delado?" he asked at length.

"I am no lady, no noble born. But yes, I'd like it very much." She mused. "We need your paladins. No, we need more. If they intend to thrust undead and demons upon us, we might need to call upon the mightiest of the priests. Perhaps even Archbishop Faol of Northshire."

Uther cringed a bit. "The Archbishop? His Eminence…" he muttered.

It wasn't that he believed his old, beloved mentor lacked the power or the heart to face such depraved things. He did wonder if the elderly man still had the body. He was loathe to force him out of the more peaceful – but so important – works in rebuilding the southern order of priests he had once called home.

"His Eminence is old now, and might not survive this journey. I do not wish to bring him here unless there are no more choices before us." He said at last. The wizard nodded, seemingly accepting that.

"Consider it, please. At least make him know." She showed the ravaged grounds and bodies. "This is only the first. A hidden war, of sorts. Who better to fight against unnatural death than the most holy servant of the Holy Light?"

"I will talk to him." He promised, keeping the reluctance out of his voice as best he could. He looked at the bodies sadly. Dead at last, all he saw were the tortured faces of people who had tried to rebuild a shattered land. "Now, if you may excuse me, I must leave the hammer a moment, and bury these poor people."

This land was in a very bad need of aid, he decided. If the Knights of the Silver Hand did not help, how would they be worthy of their charge?

* * *

Late Winter 607, Honor Hold, Dreanor

Turalyon looked around the oaken table which had been laid out in the first completed stone room. Seven men and women looked alternatively at the map spread on said table, and also at him, waiting for his orders.

There was General Swiftblade, commanding the southern forces. General Eltrass, commanding the northern forces. And General Jonathan, newly named to replace the disgraced General Minvare, commanding the central forces. With Turalyon's western forces, the four men controlled the bulk of the army, and were its strongest voices.

Among the other seated people was the Archmage Khadgar, who commanded all those with arcane abilities. Alleria Windrunner, the army's best ranger by far. Kurdran, leader of the exceptionally useful air forces. And Danath Trollbane, probably the most respected footman commander of the entire Second War.

Those seven were the best leaders that the expeditionary forces had. With them, Turalyon would have to find a way to defeat this new crisis.

"Dead or wounded, Deathwing's attack has crippled our forces down to forty-four thousand soldiers. You all know what this means." He said at length.

"If they ever breach our forces in the west, we will be unable to hold our own. We will be pushed back through sheer numbers." Jonathan mused.

"That is not necessarily true." Eltrass protested. "If they combined all of their forces, then, yes, it would be a problem. But I doubt they will."

"I second General Eltrass on this point." Swiftblade, showing signs of strain, said. The man had rushed his forces home to reinforce the positions, and sent back several prisoners to Azertoth – including Kilrogg Deadeye of the Bleeding Hollow Clan. By all accounts, the man should be resting, yet he had insisted to take part in the meeting.

Turalyon nodded. "The Horde here is different, really. It is acting less as one army as the one during the Second War. They have not yet fought past their disunity. They say that Ner'Zul leads this Horde, but it might be in name rather than in fact."

"It may well be our salvation, but only if we manage to destroy the threat to our air superiority." Khadgar reminded them.

"Taking Deathwing down from the sky? The Fallen Aspect itself?" Alleria sneered. "Even my ancestors couldn't do it. Why should this be any different with us?"

"Bah! If myself and Sky'Ree can get close to the beastie, we'll give it a fight it'll remember, elf!" Kurdran growled. Turalyon did not doubt it – he'd seen the dwarf and his gryphon in action, and knew that they had actually held their own against the dreaded behemoth.

"Even so, we must act with caution. We must rebuild our forces!" Jonathan stated.

Turalyon exchanged a grim smile with several of the others. He did not mean to mock the newly-promoted man, as Jonathan had shown himself to be a steady officer with a good judgement. He did, however, tend to think that the younger man was more than a tad naïve when it came to some of the Alliance's capabilities.

"If only we could. But I doubt that the people in our homeworld will give us much troops." The High General stated.

Khadgar stood up and stopped Jonathan before the man had done much more than open his mouth. "There are problems in our lands. My people are dealing with something insidious. Azeroth and many of the other realms are in the midst of rebuilding. Sending more troops requires conscription and money. With the forces we have to maintain to keep the remnants of the old Horde in check, and our strained economies, we simply cannot expect reinforcements." With that being said, the archmage sat back down.

"There is a possibility." Swiftblade mused, "We've fought the Horde, and they haven't shown a capacity to throw very good battle plans together. They're used to using numbers, brute strength, and fear to achieve victory."

"We've all seen that much. Home, the Horde fought with more forethought." Illadan mused. "I suppose that the orcs had grown used to fighting harder battles."

"Not these." Alleria muttered darkly. "Those fool greenskins… they're even more depraved here."

"And far more clannish." Turalyon agreed, giving the elf ranger a troubled look. He was becoming concerned about her these days – her brooding was getting worse. "I see your point, Lord Swiftblade. We can use it to weaken them."

"Or break them. The Shattered Hand has never attacked us very fiercely." Jonathan pointed out. His face then showed surprise. "Does that mean…?"

Turalyon had seen it, too. "Yes, that makes a twisted sort of sense."

"It does fit our battles so far." Illadan nodded.

"And it might be the key to achieving our goals here." Swiftblade finished. Khadgar was nodding as well, but Kurdran exploded before anything else could be said, startling the Generals' tactical brewing.

"Lads! I dunna mind yer being hot on somethin', but might ye just share whatever it might be with us?!?" The powerful rider grunted. "It'd help, that it would."

Turalyon felt mildly embarrassed, but before he could say anything, Alleria spoke up in her usual, sour voice.

"They mean the Shattered Hand Clan isn't fully allied with Shadowmoon. A good show of strength, and they might make a truce, even a temporary alliance with us." She snapped, eyeing the dwarf with distaste. "Try to notice more when you fly, Griphon Rider. Or do you only live for your precious stormhammers?"

Kurdran bristled, his face quickly changing into an ugly red which was lost in his reddish beard. Alleria only watched with some morbid amusement, and it was clear to Turalyon that the ranger had clearly meant to initiate an incident. He refused to believe it: first, Minvare becomes nearly traitorous. Now, Alleria, their best ranger, was sowing disunity. Turalyon frowned, unsure of how he should proceed, when Illadan turned a cold face towards his kin.

"Leave this council, Ranger-Captain. Your petulance is embarrassing you and the entire House Windrunner." He mused, his voice beautifully chilled. Alleria seemed momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered.

"You think that because you and my younger sister are mates, that I'll stand by and allow you."

"General Eltrass is right!" Turalyon said at last. "You are lashing angrily, and it has been getting worse lately. Now, I order you to go calm yourself, and not come back until you can treat the rest of the leadership here with adequate respect!"

The elven woman glared at Turalyon, who glared right back. The contest of will lasted for many moments, before Khadgar's voice gently chided them.

"We have more pressing matters, haven't we? Deathwing must be dealt with, and we must ensure our main force won't be sent reeling back towards the Dark Portal."

At that, Alleria turned her head away, and gracefully stalked out of the roughly-made but sturdy stone room. Turalyon vowed that he'd have a talk with that fool elf later on. At the moment, however, he forced himself to shift attention back to the matters at hand.

"I think that we should ready two separate forces. The first will be led by Lord Khadgar and Sir Kurdran. Their mission will be to find and, if possible, stop Deathwing from interfering with us." He chuckled as he realized the task he had just set. "We generals and soldiers will have the actually easier work: to strike a blow against the Horde meant to show the Alliance's strength and power."

"That'll be a wonderful little fight, won't it?" Danath laughed.

"One can only hope." Illadan stated, his elven eyes amused.

"Then, friends, let us all plan as well as we possibly can, and make certain we do not go down in history as utter fools." Turalyon uttered.

The meeting thus raged through the day and unto Dreanor's unsettling night.

* * *

Late Winter 607, Dust Crags, Wildlands

Argal Grimfrost's forces were on the move again.

It had taken only a few days to gather several hundred warriors for his needs. After several years of building and farming, his clan had gone and settled, slowly working to forget the bloodlust and bloodshed which had been the crux of their entire race for over three decades.

But the destruction of one of their villages had been a blow to their pride, to their selves. When Grimfrost had issued the call for two thousand grunts, his people had quickly recovered their weapons and answered. Now, seated on one of the few dire wolves they had found and bred over the years, the old orc stood before the assembled army.

It was small by the standards of the old Horde. Two thousand was nothing, if one compared to the hundreds of thousands which had fought and died on the human soil only. But these two thousand were battle-scarred, hardened veterans of a hundred campaigns. Each was worth ten young grunts. And Kerak, the greatest orc warrior of his time, stood beside him, adding that much weight to the army.

"Brethren!" He called, "As you know, Lerkan village was destroyed in a dishonourable sneak attack by our former brothers. By the Black Tooth Grin Clan!" He growled, and his people muttered angrily: the orcs of the Black Tooth Grin had once been part of the Blackrock Clan, as had the Direfangs, yet that particular clan had never been trusted.

It didn't even feel strange to fight an opponent other than the humans or the dwarves. The Alliance had been the last enemy. The Kingdom of Azeroth had come before that, and the Dreanei before it. And all the while, clashes had occurred between the clans. Even Blackhand had been unable to stop it, and all Doomhammer had been able to do was redirect most of it towards the Alliance forces.

"They will pay for this action! They think our peaceful ways have made us weak! Have they?!?" He shouted.

The orcs shouted back in denial.

"We are the Direfang Clan! The greatest warriors of the Horde! We will have our retribution in blood!" He shouted, lifting his axe high. The answering roar was deafening. Feet stamped and steel banged as two thousand grunts went wild with the euphoria of coming battle.

"All of this, and we've changed so little. Haven't we, Kerak?" he asked.

The giant orc gave the chieftain and former warlord a look. And then looked away a moment. He, too, felt the bloodlust, it seemed. The curse of their race and one's natural penchant for fighting couldn't be denied that simply.

"There's a difference." The orc intoned. "But its very hard for me to explain."

"Its much like how I feel about it." He said tiredly. "Three shamans are coming with us, my friend."

"I'm surprised Gelmar allowed it. He's keen on reminding us that their powers are not meant to harm others if possible, but rather to find balance." Kerak muttered, looking back in surprise.

Grimfrost shrugged. There was no real point in saying that Thornfeet and Drek'Thar had gone off with many senior shamans for parts unknown. The Shamans had decided to come on their own free will. He doubted that they would've done it had they thought that their revered Patriarch would have forbidden it. But the poor necrolyte-turned-spiritual teacher had always been keen on one's free will.

"If he's angry with us, we'll take it with him when he comes back. Right now, we have to strike at the Black Tooth Grin with enough force to make them reconsider ever fighting us again."

"And make sure that Azeroth doesn't notice us do the fighting." Kerak pointed out in a pained voice.

Grimfrost understood the sentiment. It galled him, deep in the core of his soul, to hide from anyone. But the humans of Azeroth had retaken their lands fiercely, and were rebuilding it in earnest. Although they were far weaker compared to the realm Grimfrost had first fought against, it was impossible to even consider fighting it. He had too few troops, too few resources.

The good thing of it, the Black Tooth Grin was severely weakened, and only fragments remained in the area. It was simply the matter of removing that fragment as a warning to the others, cementing his clan as the power in the hidden areas were the Horde survivors hid from the Alliance forces.

And despite all of the well-meant and reasonable facts, Argal Grimfrost still chaffed at hiding from the ones he had nearly defeated over a decade before.

He turned his wolf towards the hills, gesturing his forces to follow. The enemy had left a rather clear trail, and it was only a matter of hours before they would come to the battlefield.

The enemy had clearly not thought that the small village they'd attacked had been part of something larger. They'd learn their mistake soon.

The army marched easily – the years on the march had never been forgotten, and there was the lingering elation of going forth to conquer something which helped everything along.

'And when we do conquer, will we be able to stop ourselves again?' he wondered uneasily. The curse was so near, always at the edge of any orc's thoughts. It frightened him to think what might happen if they reverted to its tempting, damning embrace.

It was at that moment that the Dire Fang forces' scouts came back bearing news. A large orc camp had been spotted in the western ranges of the Dust Crags, far from the normal routes that the Dire Fangs took. It was also far from any of the villages, and certainly from any of the larger defence forces.

"How many of them?" He asked quickly. They bowed to him in a way which reminded him of earlier days. He almost cringed at it. His people were already beginning to see him as a warlord rather than a chieftain. And yet there was nothing he could do about the matter.

"Less than a hundred. A hundred at most." The chief scout mused. "They're well-armed, but some of them are wounded."

Kerak frowned at that. "Have we found our killers, Argal?"

Grimfrost didn't answer immediately. It certainly fit, but he found that he couldn't completely accept it. It was all too easy. And the area was open – why would any Horde warrior camp in the open on untamed lands? It reeked of a trap. 'And if its not a trap?' his inner voice mocked. 'What if they're just being stupid? Charge through now, and disembowel them all!'

The old orc had heard that voice many times over the years, and had been one of the few in his youth to be able to push it aside. He wasn't about to attack recklessly. If they were really stupid orcs, then it would just take a bit longer. But if not…

"Search the surrounding areas. I want to know if a larger force is hiding around there."

"An ambush? Against over two thousand?" Kerak said doubtfully as the scouts left. "I doubt that the Black Tooth Grin have that many left right now. Aside from us, the only large forces are at Grim Batol with Zuluhed, and the Dreanor forces under Hellscream. If there was another…"

"Azeroth would have learned of the danger, and dispatched a large army. I know, my friend. But I don't think that Rend or Maim rule this band. I think its just a former lieutenant, thinking he's going to take in a small group by surprise. I'm thinking he has two hundred, perhaps three."

"No match for us." Kerak agreed with a feral grin. Grimfrost smiled, his yellowed tusks jutting out.

"Not at all. Now, Kerak, lets both see if we've forgotten how to strike fear in those fools who'd want to frighten us of the Direfang Clan!"

'And let's hope it'll stop there, although I doubt it. By the Spirits, I doubt it.' He thought mournfully as he rode off to face the enemy for the first time in seven human years.

* * *

Late Winter 607, Violet Citadel, Dalaran

The Kirin Tor had met for over thirteen centuries, and in that time, had met a myriad of challenges. First there had been the wildlands around the city, with monsters being extraordinarily high due to the powerful arcane ley line running through area. When the monsters had been cleared, and the city took hold, problems arose from other sources.

Plagues. Magical beasts gone amok, military clashes with the rising, conventional-minded neighbour which was Gilneas. And, of course, there was the Second War, in which the Violet Citadel itself was unsuccessfully attacked by the Horde.

Now, however, the Kirin Tor were meeting a threat they knew existed, and yet could not pinpoint. This infuriated many. But what infuriated them more, Antonidas remarked privately, was that the realm might not be able to handle it on its own.

"Several of our townships and far too many farmsteads have been attacked in the past few weeks. This must stop, before the other nations notice!" One of the members, a human female, said.

"Agreed!" Another human, an archmage of greater age than Antonidas, all but shouted, "The last thing we need is to have the Alliance Council meddle in our affairs!"

"Would it be that bad?" Yet a third human mused. "Our country is ill, and someone is directly plotting against us, undermining our efforts. If we could use the Alliance's full resources…"

Antonidas shook his head. This had been going on for two hours already, and he knew that his patience would eventually exhaust itself. He envied Rena Delado: she might be going to dangerous places and risking her life, yet at least she was doing something tangible about the situation.

The elven mage Krasus – the oldest member of the Kirin Tor, so old many apprentices half-joked in a reverential tone that he might well have been one of the city's founding mages – cleared his throat, and the magical sanctum, with its shifting skies, went silent. He commanded respect, the respect of age and power.

"If it was only about military aid, we could ask for it, of course." The elf stated, "King Terenas of Lordaeron is wise enough to know that, if we are troubles, his southern provinces will also be. The same can even be said of Gilneas. Greymane may not be as wise and benevolent as Terenas," he smiled slightly, and there was a moment of grim amusement at the understatement, "but he is intelligent, and would not want his northern borders endangered."

"I cannot wait for the moment he finally finishes his thrice-cursed wall. Then we might have some actual peace." One quipped.

"Centuries of conflict between Dalaran and Gilneas is not our concern." Antonidas said suddenly. As he had known would happen, his patience was failing him. "What is happening to our lands are. It is clear that someone has decided to worm himself right into our society. This seems like a maverick plan, but some elements point to it not being so."

"Such as?" The first archmage asked.

"The city was attacked. It was messy and chaotic, but it damaged it enough that we now need to rebuild. Thus, to keep our defences up, we have sent fewer magi to aid the Alliance on Dreanor, heightening difficulties there. Then the attacks, all around the city. By necromantic, undead means, no less." Antonidas sighed. "We're being played like pawns, and we have no idea to what game, what piece we are, or even who's playing."

The looks he received from the other members of the Kirin Tor showed that they had noticed the same thing; they had only been loathing the idea of rendering the situation more complex than it already was. It was Krasus who spoke again, this time with the authority his seniority accorded him.

"We must find out more. So far our leads have led to dead-ends, to small cults and a few roaming undead. That these things have been put down is good, but these are small fires, symptoms of a much greater blaze."

"That doesn't mean we should open our secrets to the other nations. The Pact of Alliance doesn't force us to do so!"

"That's true." Antonidas noted, nodding "But it does allow us to ask for aid. Lordaeron need not know all the details. But we do need its resources, which surpass ours tenfold."

"The Holy Light." A female archmage of rather advanced age grunted, "The priests and paladins and clerics and their adhesion to the 'Inner Divinity of the Soul'. Bah!"

"Shall we then stay by ourselves, until the situation spirals out of control, and our beloved land is destroyed?"

It was a harsh thing to say, Antonidas knew. He knew that, for all of their reluctance and banter, the men and women of the Kirin Tor truly cared about their nation, their city. Most had been born in the Violet Citadel. May came from families which had helped shape it.

"I suppose that there's no helping it." Krasus said. "We must decide if we must ask for Lordaeron's aid."

A burst of power surprised everyone as three people entered the sanctum of the Kirin Tor. One was Rena Delado, advancing a with a slight scowl on her face. The second was a middle-ages, powerfully built man with a brown beard, sporting the armour of the Silver Hand. All knew him as Uther Lightbringer.

The third, while not as well-known, was even more important in the grand scheme of things. Blonde, handsome and tall even at his young age, Arthas Menethil would one day rule the strongest of all current human nations.

It was remarkable to see them in the sanctum. It was also something which had never occurred for at least a millennia. More important that, it had been forbidden for several centuries.

"What does this mean, Lady Delado?!?" One of the council members asked, quite bristling.

The archmage – a powerful sorceress who had refused to become part of the inner circle despite having the skills and knowledge – seemed to ignore the tone. She acted as if she was above most in the place in terms of power. Antonidas, actually, knew that only Krasus and himself surpassed the woman in power. Even without that, the woman was nigh-impossible to cow.

"It means, ladies and gentlemen of the council, that you do not need to concern yourselves with a request for aid. It has already been made by Lady Delado herself." Uther mused. Arthas nodded beside him, slightly uncertain yet hiding it almost perfectly.

There was a tangible undercurrent of energy, violent in its intensity. It went through Antonidas, and he knew what it meant. It meant that the Kirin Tor were surprised. No, not just surprised, the elder mage realized. They were astounded.

Astounded, and as angry as the most blood-boiling orc could to ever stain the lands of humankind.

"Lady Delado…" one of the members hissed. "What is the meaning of this?!?"

The young archmage held herself proudly despite the tension in the room, her eyes blazing in defiance. She had certainly know what might happen, and had been fully prepared for it.

"It means what it means," she answered smoothly, calmly. "Dalaran is facing a crisis, one in which the faith of Lordaeron's priesthood and paladins can be of greater aid than our own magic."

"You decided to act on your own judgement!"

"I did. And for the people of Dalaran. You may punish me, but what is done is done."

"Friends, you lands are ailing." Uther Lightbringer mused. "Let us help you heal it from its blight."

A tense silence followed.

Antonidas sighed. This, he knew, would take a long time.

* * *

Late Winter 607, Honor Hold, Draenor

'And so, what do you think, my friend ?' Turalyon asked pensively.

'That I'd much prefer being back in Sunshire at this moment.' Swiftblade retorted dryly.

This actually elicited a laugh from the paladin. Like all things, the laugh was short-lived, and lacked any kid of real mirth. Yet it somehow relieved part of the tension. The other leaders were gone, and the two were now briefly resting before plunging into the hard battles which lay ahead.

'I understand, though I have no family of my own,' Turalyon answered after a moment. 'And yet, if you were back in Sunshire, I would have riders setting out to get you as we speak.

'We need all the good men we have ?'

'Good men, good women, good folk, and good cooperation. Something which the Alliance has found itself in short supply lately.'

Swiftblade understood. He'd seen enough to. The nations which had banded together and managed to successfully break the Horde were no longer much as far as allies went. King Terenas had a lot of political weight and, with the younger Wrynn in Azeroth and the acclaimed Proudmoore in Kul Tiras, the Alliance endured, with Dalaran and Khaz Modan also remaining committed.

But the elves were wavering, blaming the humans for many of the atrocities committed upon Quel'Thalas during the war. Stromgarde was talking of seceding, accusing Lordaeron of hoarding too much power, while Gilneas had barely been part of the Alliance to begin with.

'Good or ill, this venture will be the last of the Alliance as formed by Lord Lothar's vision.' Swiftblade admitted.

'It pains me to admit it, but it has gotten worse. Gilneas has begun to refuse to supply us, except the few forces it has. The other nations are compensating, and we may be well for several more months, perhaps half a year. But the crux of the matter remains, that we are waning.'

'There's nothing to be done about that.' Swiftblade said with finality. There had been enough questioning recently, what with Minvare's disgrace and lack of cooperation at home. It seemed that even the High General was affected after all.

Turalyon rallied at once, however, and whatever misgivings he might have had seemed to disappear as he nodded firmly. He stood up and paced in front of the wooden table at which many had sat to decided the strategy of the expeditionary forces.

'Quite right. When I think of Lord Lothar, and how he had to start everything from nothing, I feel ashamed of these questions I have. But enough of that. Are you ready for the task ahead.'

'I am. I have taken a force of five thousand men. That will do.'

'Rather small.'

'I've fought under far worse circumstances, as have you.' Swiftblade reminded the man. The paladin seemed about to reply something, when the tent flap all but flew off, and an angry cry hissed through the air.'

'General Turalyon, what is the meaning of this !?' Alleria Windrunner growled, her musical elven voice mired by her angry disposition. Not that she had been much of anything besides angry and sullen recently, the shocked Swiftblade thought to himself.

Turalyon frowned in stern disapproval. 'Lady Alleria…' he attempted to begin.

The high elf seemed not to notice that the man had spoken. She didn't seem to notice anything much at all, besides the fact that she was close to her prey. Like a hunter, she pounced on it relentlessly.

'How dare you remove me from active scout duty ?!' she snapped.

"You're forgetting yourself, milady…" Turalyon warned. This did not seem to do anything to stop the elven juggernaut.

"I lead the rangers in this army, human!" she snapped, her eyes flashing "Your rank is secondary to that! Their loyalty is to me first!"

The paladin advanced, his frown deepening, and Swiftblade suddenly felt he truly wanted to be totally elsewhere. He was no coward, and a verbal fight was nothing new to someone in his position. However, when he looked at those two…

"Elf or Human, Dwarf or Gnome," Turalyon grunted, his tone icy, brittle, "All of the soldiers here come under the command of the Alliance Expedition. Which, unless you wish to travel all the way back to Stormwind Keep to argue the point before His Majesty King Varien, makes me the ultimate judge of who should do what."

"You arrogant, short-lived…"

"The High Elves of Quel'Thalas can talk of arrogance." Turalyon cut in, "They have it large supply. You will remain in the command section. If you don't like it, return to Silvermoon."

The last part of the sentence lashed out like a whip, and Swiftblade cringed inwardly. Turalyon himself seemed to realize what he had just said, the impossibility of what he had uttered, and the pain it must have inflicted.

He was reflective about it, which was, Swiftblade supposed, why he never saw the arm coming up, until the fist struck him across the face.

Had it been a dainty lady in Whitefort or Stormwind, the strike probably barely would have stung. This particular woman, however, happened to be one of the most powerful elven warriors in the entire Alliance, the scout for whom even exile had not tarnished her reputation amongst the elven ranger cadre.

Consequently, Turalyon's head snapped to the side, his body momentarily stunned by it. Swiftblade quickly put his hand on the hilt of his sword. He knew that Turalyon would never be taken unawares, but if Alleria tried to push the issue…

The moment faded, as Turalyon recovered in the next instant, his eyes flashing in surprise and anger. He rounded on the elf, only to quickly calm himself. Paladins, Swiftblade knew, prided themselves in controlling their base emotions. Although the general was more soldier than cleric, he adhered to that rule as well.

"If we weren't in such a dire situation, you would either hang from this or have your head cut off within the hour." He snapped. "And the same may be said to anyone here who flees or deserts."

"Do you want an apology, oh great general?" the elf ranger retorted. Another glare passed between the human and the elf, and Swiftblade loudly cleared his throat. It seemed to remind them that someone else was in the room with them, and they stopped, looking slightly uncomfortable.

_As if the camp wouldn't hear from this from the guards, _Swiftblade thought privately. He walked around the table, letting go of his blade.

"General, commander…" he mused, trying to keep a certain bit of amusement from showing in his voice, "As a man who has been married for many years, who has children of his own, may I offer some piece of advice?"

"Avice, Lord Aerth?" Alleria muttered, and Turalyon frowned in slight confusion, clearly not understanding himself.

"Yes, indeed! Lady Eira, the woman who long ago captured my heart and has held it to this day, Lady Eira and I have had our differences. But we have found that shouting does nothing, and that the best way to keep certain things from escalating is to simply calm down on one's own before striking the conversation once more."

They stood quiet. He shook his head.

"For, I must point out, you certainly look much like Eira and I did once, when we were both younger and far less proficient in how to talk." He bowed to the gaping Turalyon, then to the tense Alleria, and exited before either could react and kill him.

Swiftblade had been an excellent soldier for many years, and had fought in and led far too many battles for his taste. One of the elements he missed the most when he was at war, he remembered, was the fact that the mirth was gone, the laugh was dead, the amusement void or forced or shallow.

Yet now, the grey-haired man walked through the camp, chuckles on his lips, vastly amused at what he had just seen. Not the acts themselves, but something behind the acts he had witnessed. Or perhaps it was just something he had willed to be there, and never existed.

Did it really matter?

_Not right now._ His mind decided, and he laughed anew.

* * *

**Havenport, Home of the Alliance Armada**

The city of Havenport was founded by merchants from Arathor nearly fourteen hundred years ago, chosen for its excellent, natural port. Over the years, many other ports were founded as colonies on that island, yet none could approach its wealth and power. When Arathor collapsed, it was from Havenport that the powerful House of Proudmoore rose to create the nation of Kul Tiras, which it has ruled ever since.

In recent years, Havenport has become important not only for commerce, but for war as well. During the Second War, its shipyards were converted into building and repairing warships, and it was from Havenport that much of the Alliance ships first set sail to combat the orcs. This fine reputation only helped to city flourish. It was this importance which led to Grom Hellscream attacking it, forcing the far larger and mightier Alliance Fleet to protect this important place.

From the many-towered castle of the House of Proudmoore to the immense docks, the city of Havenport stands unchanging, unrelenting, despite the blows struck against it during its long history.

_AUTHOR'S NOTES: Sorry about the long wait! Little computer time since February! It should be better now! _


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Dangers and Temptations

**Chapter Sixteen: Dangers and Temptations**

_Early Spring 607, The Fist of Lothar, On the Great Sea_

The _Fist of Lothar_ had been built with two purposes in mind. One of them was the showcase Kul Tiras' naval superiority. As far as the Tirassian were concerned, they were the strongest maritime power, outstripping even Lordaeron and Quel'Thalas, and only the latter ever tried to argue with that.

The second, and most important reason, was to build a ship powerful enough to stand against two of the Horde's juggernauts and emerge victorious. It had been designed during the Second War, but only saw its aftermath, when the Horde fleets had been broken.

Now, however, the Horde navies seemed to have resurfaced. Small invasions had been conducted, and – most infuriatingly – Havenport itself had been attacked.

That the heart of his nation had been touched only fuelled Proudmoore's anger and determination, and he had sent orders to all of the battleships which could be spared, and formed the Hunter Fleet. It was a large assemblage: forty battleships and twenty destroyers, ten submarines, with dozens of flying machines going back and forth. And, of course, the _Fist._

Twice as large as a normal battleship, it was the largest ship humanity had ever built, and bristled with catapults and cannons, protected by strengthened ironwood. It was a floating fortress. It was from that place that Proudmoore fully intended to catch whomever had slighted him and the Alliance Fleet.

So far, however, he had found nothing.

"Is the information certain?" He asked the gnome.

"Aye." The little man said empathically, "By the Gears of Gnomerregan, I swear it to be true! We looked all through the shores, and there be no sight of them."

"Please do not take this ill, good gnome," the admiral mused, "But are you certain of all your men?"

The gnome looked rather insulted, and Proudmoore wondered if he could really blame him. It had been a harsh question, after all. Before the flying machine leader could speak, however, he raised a weary hand.

"No, forget my harshness. I meant no slight on your people. We of the Fleet have been saved by your diligence too many times for me to attempt to question you on anything of the sort."

"Aye. Thank you, Yer Majesty."

"Keep looking, though. Keep looking. These orcs are vicious but clever. We must find them quickly."

"Quickly," Proudmoore mused sourly. "I say this, and it arranges nothing. There is no good in having a powerful fleet, and the most powerful ship on the Great Sea, if one cannot even strike with it."

It was doubly frustrating, since the Alliance had long prided itself on its mastery on the sea. During the Second War, the Horde at its best had never been able to assert dominance except near the Azerothian coasts and some bases. Ship production and a greater knowledge of sea combat had allowed humans and elves and gnomes to strike hard, and eventually break the back of the Horde Fleet.

But not before the Third Fleet was attacked, not before it was decimated, with many of Proudmoore's own sons dying defending it. After the tragedy, he had ordered more ships to be built, had in fact pushed production so hard it nearly collapsed in the last year.

Rage had been his motivation then, and so it was now.

No matter what King Terenas might say, Proudmoore knew that the orcs could never be trusted. He had seen their bloodlust too clearly, and it had cost him too dearly. But Proudmoore knew that Terenas's position was tenuous, and that the Alliance held only because his maritime holdings allowed smooth communications between the countries. That, and his friendship to Terenas, had made him vote to create the internment camps.

What he truly believed, however…

He shook his head. He didn't know what to believe anymore. His days seemed to be filled with bitterness, with hatred. He fought hard against this, trying to regain what he had lost, if only for his remaining children, Jaina and Tandred. But each day, it seemed that the melancholy was growing stronger, his soul just slightly more black than the day before.

There were shouts, suddenly. Ordered shouts, orders being passed between seamen, and the Grand Admiral's head rose from the slump it had been in. He left his cabin, just in time to barge into a young sailor, who seemed momentarily mystified at who he had almost bowled over.

"What happens?" he commanded, "Speak up, man!"

"S-ships, Your Highness! An Horde Fleet!" The younger man managed to babble. Whatever else he might have said was lost, as Proudmoore was already making his way to the ship's upper deck, and right to the ship's captain, who was still bellowing orders. Here and there, he saw the men preparing themselves for action. The ships were signalling with flags, preparing for battle formations.

"What happens?" Proudmoore asked, taking out his longview and squinting.

"Horde ships, milord. On the starboard side."

Proudmoore nodded after a moment. "I see them. So we have… thirty-nine ships, and half of them juggernauts." He tried to wrap his mind around that concept. How had the Horde managed to retain forces such as that? It was one answer he would have to look for later.

The captain seemed to understand what the Grand Admiral had really meant, nodding grimly. "Aye, Sire. Thirty-nine. Flying four different clan colours. I'm thinking small bands got together and decided to have a strike at us."

"At us? So we did not find them?"

"We did. But they found us, too. Coming full speed, that they are."

Proudmoore considered that. Thirty-nine ships was a sizable force, perhaps the majority of the remaining Horde Fleet. But there seemed to be no giant turtles in the sea, though he could not rightly make certain of it. Such a senseless attack, at least to a human's point of view.

But it fit the Horde: to fight no matter the odds, no matter what might happen. Perhaps the bloodlust had destroyed the sanity in that fleet. But the reason, in the end, didn't matter to Proudmoore. They were here. Although not his immediate prey, they would not escape his forces' wrath.

"So be it. Thirty-nine less Horde ships can only be a good thing for us humans. Aye, captain?"

"Aye, Admiral. A good thing, to be sure."

To throw themselves into a fight with seventy fully-armed Alliance ships was foolhardy, though, even for an orc. He wondered what could be afoot. They were charging in so recklessly, like they truly wished to die in glorious battle, no matter how short the battle may be…

Or they intended to die to prevent something from being seen.

"Captain, set the submarines and thirty of our battleships on the enemy fleet! We will turn to port with all haste!"

"Milord?"

"They're a decoy. That ragtag fleet is nothing but smoke to deceive us! Turn to port!"

Brilliant, the Admiral thought. A fine tactic, as far as orcish thoughts went. But the orc wasn't born who would fool Dealin Proudmoore on the seas.

He would make certain that this… Grom Hellscream… remembered that before he sunk him into the Beyond.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Northridge Shores, Azeroth-Wildlands Frontier_

Hellscream couldn't wait to get out of the human lands. The entire trip had done nothing but disgust him.

The orcs were alone in this world. Not only along, he had discovered something more, something even more infuriating: they were beaten. The concept could barely register in his mind, next to the ever-present core of violence deep in his soul, but the chieftain could see what his eyes showed him.

There were places where the Horde still had some strength: bases and hidden outposts, the strongest of which seemed to be Grim Batol. But many of these places were nothing but refuges, surrounded by the pink-skinned humans and their allies. The only difference between those strongholds and the internment camps was that the guards were orcs, and the population was still armed within their confines.

Internment camps… there was the thing which enraged Hellscream the most. The humans had won the war – as impossible as that may seem to the blademaster – but then had not done the honourable thing. Had it been Hellscream who had won, he would have slain all the warriors and their people, for there was no honour in letting those who had lost live in disgrace.

But not these humans. They had taken the remnants of many clans, and taken the people to enclosed camps, were they wallowed in misery. Was there nothing more disgraceful How low could the damnable humans be?!?

But there was hope. Some orcs still fought, even though they had been abandoned by the treacherous Forest Trolls – whom Hellscream didn't know of except in angry tirades – and even though most of the remaining Ogres had gone wild, abandoning the orcs and fleeing into the wilder places, becoming tribes and raiding parties.

Where was the world coming to? Nothing Hellscream liked. Yet some fought, and it was this which gave him hope. Now, with the artifact carefully hidden in a metal casket, he fully intended to give the power he had obtained to Ner'Zhul, with the intent on returning the Horde to its glory, and burn the human world away once and for all.

But this was for another time. Now, he had to be careful, even though he wanted nothing but a fight. His small group of ships – filled with the larger part of his troops – was anchored at shore, while his ship stood guard with a skeleton crew.

"Any sign?" He called the lookout once more.

"No, chieftain! No human ships on the horizon!"

"They've taken the bait, those foolish humans." One of the orcs near Hellscream growled. Others echoed their agreement.

"Don't act like fools!" Hellscream snapped, "And don't let your guard down! These humans are tricky on the waters, we've learned that much. And, as much as I despise it, we're in no condition to fight them on their battlefield and have any hope of victory!"

The crux of the unease was Kul Tiras. Hellscream had managed to strike a blow against their capital, enough to confuse the human fleets and allow his mission to be carried out. But he had miscalculated the numbers and power the humans could bring to bear on the sea. On Dreanor, the seas were smaller and poorer, and the clans had never built more than a hundred ships between all of them.

But the people of the Alliance had, he'd been told and had found. Dalaran, the smallest navy, had over forty ships, and the stronger powers of Quel'Thalas and Lordearon had nearly five times that amount. But Kul Tiras' fleet was larger still, and Proudmoore was known as one of the most ruthless and thorough humans on the Great Sea.

The noose had been felt as Hellscream's fleet had sailed back south, to one of the few anchor points the Horde still held. The human ships were too numerous to evade forever, and there was a sign that a large Alliance force was on their trail.

Knowing this, and grudgingly acknowledging that he stood no chance of winning any great battle on the seas, Hellscream had agreed to shift most of his troops to eight ships and barges, while the others would engage the roaming humans, hopefully buying them enough time to disembark. With the loss of those ships, the Horde navy would be all but destroyed, but it would be worth it, if it meant returning one day, with power.

"So far, the plan has worked. But let's hope it continues. If we get our troops on the ground, they won't be able to fight us, and we can go back to the Portal and fight our way through." Hellscream mused.

"We don't have to fear those ugly pink skins!" One orc said furiously. "We can fight them wherever…"

The insubordinate orc had no time to say more, as Hellscream's powerful arm closed on his throat, and lifted him off the ground. The chieftain's eyes burned with the red-hot fury of bloodlust, and it was all Hellscream could do not to crush the smaller orc's throat right there.

"Are you implying that I'm a coward, orc?" He growled, his eyes burning into the insubordinate. "Do you dare imply that, right in my face?!?"

"No… no chieftain." The other orc gasped, while the others stayed respectfully away from the confrontation. "Never."

"Then keep your tongue to yourself, as well as your impossible stupidity, if you want to live to fight another day!"

"Y…yes, chieftain."

"Now," Hellscream growled, "Go cool that stupid head of yours." That said, he flung the other orc over the side, where he loudly splashed into the sea. He then turned his glare to the others who were nearby. "I am the Chieftain of the Warsong Clan! If you believe I'm unfit, feel free to challenge me. Or else, be silent and obey!"

None of the orcs present moved. After a moment, the fury in Hellscream's heart receded, and he returned to his contemplation. He understood his people's anger. He felt it. But he also knew that sometimes – sometimes – discretion was necessary. He had used it more in the human lands than even before in his life, though, and it was starting to tire him.

He heard the lookout calling. "What is it?" he shouted.

"Ships! Human ships, chieftain! On the horizon!" the lookout shouted back..

Hellscream glared towards the sea. So the diversion hadn't quite been what he'd hoped for. At the same time, however, he wasn't surprised. They said that the humans understood sea tactics to a greater degree – had won many battles because of that. That he'd managed to get to shore was already a victory.

"They've come." He muttered, "How long before all the troops are disembarked?"

"An hour, chieftain," an orc who had been on the sea ever since the war mused, "But it'll be less than an hour before the humans come within range."

"Then we'll have to make do, won't we?" Hellscream mused with some relish. "Lookout! What flag on those ships!?"

There was a long pause, and then the lookout's voice crashed from above. "Gold anchors on green flags, but the largest ship's flag… it has small birds on either side!"

"Small birds?" The sea-experienced orc muttered, "That's the crest of the King of Kul Tiras. That's Proudmoore's crest!"

Proudmoore… Grand Admiral Dealin Proudmoore, King of Kul Tiras. Hellscream had heard the name. Whereas Lothar was the most despised name on land, Proudmoore's was the most despised on the sea. How he wished to fight this human! How he wished to sever his head and bathe in his blood.

But he couldn't. His forces were small, and he was inexperienced on the sea. As much as the bloodlust controlled him, Hellscream had become chieftain, succeeding his father, for a reason: he knew when it was time to fight. And this wasn't it.

"We'll position the ships in front of the anchor point, and leave with the remaining barges. Those who can't fit in will have to swim." He ordered, "If they see our ship, they'll hesitate a bit. It might buy us just enough time."

"We're fleeing?" An orc asked, and couldn't help but sound a bit outraged.

"Yes. For now." He mused. He looked out towards the sea. He could see the ships now, and he growled deep within his throat.

"For now," he vowed, "But not forever."

* * *

_Early Spring 607, The Dark Portal Outpost, Dreanor_

There was something to be said about leading an army. There was the prestige and the glory of victory, of course. There was the camaraderie the knights developed, the respect the general received. Having been a general for nearly fifteen years, and reaping many rewards from the position and the victories he had brought, Aerth Swiftblade understood the benefits all too well.

For all of those benefits, however, came the downside. Swiftblade had grown resigned to the idea of sending other men to fight while he sat back and watched how his plans unfolded. He knew that he was needed for his ideas, that there was no point in fighting by himself. But Swiftblade had gone his way into the Alliance as an active leader, and that was when he truly at his best.

Then, of course, there was the pomp and ceremony, which the man could barely stand at times. Without Eira beside him to calm and advise him, he fidgeted and longed to either be in the field or fiddling with a clock.

He certainly had no wish to stand while another supply run came from the Azerothian side of the Dark Portal. However, it was an unspoken rule that at least one commanding general be there at anyone time. With his army still resting from battle, and Turalyon busy at fashioning a true settlement at Honor Hold and at the Armory, the task had fallen to him.

He sighed. There was no point in wishing otherwise. He'd have to bear it.

The guards and workers at the portal were waiting, expectant. It had been longer for this shipment to arrive. Rumors had started over that: that the orcs had attacked again, that there was a plague back home, that a civil war had broken out.

Swiftblade, as for himself, believed that the erratic supplies showed the Alliance itself: support for it was waning. It was held together by two instances: the threat of a Dreanor invasion, and the threat of Grim Batol. Should both threats be removed, he feared the Alliance would not stand another decade, as each country would go back to pursuing its own goals.

"Light preserve us all, but we can be such fools." He grunted, and looked about to see no one had heard him. No one had. Or, at least, no one wanted to point out to General Swiftblade that General Swiftblade was busy rambling to himself to stave off boredom.

The portal began to swirl faster, going from limpid blue to a purplish colour – signs that something was approaching. All were expectant, but the archers nocked arrows, crossbows were readied, and the footmen had a hand on the hilt of their sword. If friend, well and good. But if foe, the enemy would not find the people guarding the Portal sleeping.

Despite this, there was a certain degree of relief in the men, when what came to them were no orcs attempting to break through, but wagons filled with supplies. The animals, although blindfolded, were spooked, and the men leading them looked little better. But the sight of the awaiting humans and elves brought cheer to frightened faces.

Swiftblade understood the fright well. He had travelled the portal, and it had always seemed to him that something stood just outside, something ominous, something too dark to name. He was walking where no mortal ever should, and it chilled his soul. Such were his thoughts. His sympathy was complete, and he let the men recover a bit and begin unloading before going to them.

As he made his way, soldiers stepped aside, nodding or saluting. Knight or footman, noble or peasant, human or elf, they subtly stepped out of the way and cleared him a path. Of course, there were two knights – his minders, as large as orcs both – who always dogged his steps, but this was something else. This was respect, something he had always wanted, though not quite craved for.

The workers spotted his armour and cape, and knew his importance, and one of the oldest came and bowed to him. "Good day, m'lord." He seemed astounded when Swiftblade made a bow of his own.

"Good day, sir. We were awaiting this shipment. What have you here?"

"Weapons and food, mostly. Some building equipment to, m'lord. We'd been about ready for two days, but there was a delay…"

The man seemed uncomfortable with talking about what the 'delay' was, and Swiftblade raised an eyebrow. It couldn't be political, for the workers cared little for the greater politics of the Alliance. Yet something had happened, which made them quite uncomfortable.

"Well? It seems this delay puts you off, sir. What was it?" He mused to the troubled man.

"Why, that would be us, General." A voice, slightly melodious, intoned. There was the slur of the thalassian dialect in the human common, and Swiftblade was as such not so surprised at seeing elves.

They were dressed rather well, and he rated them servants of a noble house. His surprise was compounded when he saw the crest of the Windrunner family being displayed. There were three elves, one male and two female, although one of the females seemed to be kneeling and doing something away from the general. The other female glided towards him.

"I salute you, human warrior. I am Lessa of Gilderia, retainer to the Great House of Windrunner."

"Greetings. I am Aerth Swiftblade, General of the Alliance and Lord of Sunshire." He mused formally, "And now that the pleasantries are over, I feel I am owed some explanation.

The male said something in elven, to which the kneeling female answered. Swiftblade gave the elves a look. "What is that about an heir?" He saw their surprise and gestured a bit indifferently. "General Illadan and I are friends, and I have talked to many elves in my life. I can understand Thalassian well enough."

The elves looked at each other for a moment, then the male of the trio took a step forward. "I am Jalieri of the Windrunner retainers. You are Aerth Swiftblade, thus you know of Lady Alleria and General Turalyon?"

"Of course." Swiftblade mused, wondering where this was all going, "High General Turalyon commands the expedition, while Alleria is one of our best commanders. I know them well. Now, what…" he stopped when the other woman rose and turned aside.

There, looking about uncertainly, was an elven boy, garbed in definitely better garb, befitting a young noble. As Swiftblade looked a bit closer, he was shocked to see strange details about the boy in question. The face wasn't quite elven, the face was rounder, a bit harsher, the ears shorter and slightly rounder. All of this gave the elf a few… human qualities.

Swiftblade was no fool. He had just been asked about an elf and a human. And then this boy.

"And this is?"

"Lord Arator Windrunner, scion of House Windrunner, and son to General Turalyon and Lady Alleria." Lessa said proudly.

Had the earth suddenly opened up, the effect could not possibly have been worse. This explained things, and yet explained none. Swiftblade fought the confusion in his mind. The soldier took over. This was the time for reason, not for reckless emotion. And yet…

"Well and good." He said with an effort, "I must admit to being troubled. But I must ask: why is the child here? Why is he not safely in Quel'Thalas?"

"For such is the will of Lady Alleria."

"Indeed?" He mused. "Then I suppose I must take him to his father with all haste."

Looking at the boy, Swiftblade shook his head. Politics. Elven fickleness. He cursed both Alleria and Turalyon, and yet kept his peace. The paladin would certainly explode when he heard. And then, when Allieria came back from the daring mission Khadgar had put together.

The aging soldier motioned for the elves to follow him. Sometimes, he nearly felt, he should just have remained a simple soldier, and lived a simpler life.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Deathwing's Isle, Dreanor_

Khadgar considered himself a master of the mystic arts, despite the fact that he was far from what his own master, Medhiv had once been. He knew spells that most mortals would never be able to fathom, and the knowledge to rival any elven high mage in existence. None of this was bragging, he had proven himself.

The same could be said of his two comrades. Although demoted to Ranger-Captain in disgrace, Alleria Windrunner was considered legendary amongst the famed elven rangers. No one could hit a target as perfectly, nor as fast. Even her skilled sisters, Vereesa and Sylvanas, did not match her.

And then there was Kurdran, with Sky'Ree as his mount. The Wildhammers had always been fierce fighters, but this particular dwarf had been the bane of dragons during the Second War, personally fighting some of the largest of their kin, and emerging victorious. Songs were sung in the Aeries about the duo.

Three truly powerful mortals. Between the three of them, they could take a regiment of orcs and prevail. And they had not come alone.

Khadgar had chosen ten of the best mages in the expedition, while Alleria had hand-picked thirty amongst the elven rangers and archers. Kurdran, for his part, had chosen fifteen of his strongest battle brother and brought their mount. All in all, theirs was perhaps the most elite group in the entire expedition.

But as he walked on the shores of Deathwing's lair, awaiting the beast he planned to kill, he wondered if it was enough to combat the Fallen Aspect.

"This feels like insanity." Alleria muttered lowly as the three leaders debated their next move.

"Aye, lass," the dwarf mused, "That it does. But we knew as much, didn't we just ?"

"I would lie if I told you I feel completely confident, myself." Khadgar admitted, "But the stakes are there. You know Deathwing must be routed, driven off, or killed."

The last attack upon the Armoury had been followed by one at Honor Hold, and such attacks deep within the Alliance lines had been enough to convince the leading Generals to accept the archmage's ploy for retaliation. Scrying had found the place, far to the east on an island, and the formation had been chosen. Not without problems, though, since there had been frictions between Turalyon and Alleria.

But gone they had, and here they were. Now, all three were preparing for a battle they could not rationally be certain they'd win.

"Are your people ready, Kurdran? When the dragons arrive…"

"We'll be in the air the moment we scent a whiff of their stink, I promise ya that, by the Aerie." The dwarf vowed. Khadgar nodded, and gave the strangely quiet elf an inquisitive look, which forced her to awaken from her trance.

"My people are ready. Don't worry." She said, shortly. This only disquieted Khadgar further.

"Are you doing well, Alleria ?" he inquired, 'You seem oddly preoccupied lately.

She gestured dismissively, almost angrily. "I'm fine, really. I just have many things on my mind right n…"

A griphon crowed deeply, followed by others. All three tensed, and then Kurdran surged into action.'

"That'd be the whiff, lads !" he shouted, and was on his faithful companion in an instant, giving orders to the others.

"So it seems." Khadgar muttered, and after another look, the human and the elf parted to take control of their unit.

The dragons came at the from the north. Sixteen of them, all rather large, but none being the largest kind, and none being the gargantuan behemoth Deathwing was. This, as far as Khadgar was concerned, was both good and bad. Good, because it would allow his group to gain true experience as a unit. Bad, because it would give away their position so soon.

The elves and the mages spread out, each being assigned a particular target, while the griphons took flight to challenge the enemy directly in the sky. The wait was short, as the dragons, screeching angrily, surged to battle.

Half of the dragons were engaged by the griphons directly, and a terrifying, awe-inspiring aerial fight developed over the head of those who had time to admire it. However, the time for admiration was short, as the elves shot at the wings of the other half, while the mages released spells of ice, fire and lightning upon their enemies.

Khadgar and Alleria found themselves taking on the same target. As the ranger shot arrows which tore through skin, bones and sinews, Khadgar summoned the ancient magic he had learned at the feet of the Last Guardian of Tirisfal, and turned the air around the dragon into a block of erupting lava, burning through the beat quickly. Crippled by the expert arrows, the dragon was unable to dodge, and fell quickly, crashing to the ground.

Alleria's mouth was a thin line. 'Too easy.' She told him, nudging towards the battle, where their forces were clearly holding the advantage. 'Whelps, fools, cannon fodder.' She added. Khadgar nodded : he was thinking the same thing. As he nodded, another dragon crashed down, followed by another, both felled by Kurdran, while the others struggled.

With all three leaders aiding with their might, the group made short work of the dragons, and by the end of the battle, none of them had been killed, although several had been wounded, including Kudran, whose arm was covered in a slimy, healing concoction. It was nearly nightfall before the three leaders could meet again, and none of them could rejoice as their people did.

"This was nothing, was it." Kurdran sighed. He did not seem happy about that fact at all.

"That was what Deathwing wanted." Khadgar stated, "They were whelps, like Alleria surmised. Look at the carcasses, they're too small. They were sent in both as a test, and to make us feel as if we're in control."

Silence fell, as all three contemplated the strange night sky that they were slowly getting used to seeing. Finally, Alleria broke the silence, her voice firm and unyielding.

"We have to move. Now." She said. "This place isn't safe now."

"Aye."

"Yes." And with that, they went right back to work. The dwarves were ready to feast on the spot, and the humans and elves were not far behind them. The victory had been a large one in their eyes, and Khadgar understood where it came from : sixteen dragons killed, and no casualties, was worthy of praise. However, with Deathwing having only sent his weakest whelps – and wounded the elite group in the process, it meant only one thing.

They had been tested. Gauged. The next strike would destroy them if they were caught unprepared.

Kurdran quickly took control of the dwarves. Bashing a few heads and shouting several dwarven expletives, he quickly had them back on the ground, while Khadgar explained the situation to the other mages in detail before they agreed to take their gear and follow him.

Alleria went to the elves, spoke a phrase, made a sign, and they followed without question. The archmage felt a certain amount of envy. Only people like Lothar and Terenas were able to have such loyalty. Even revered generals like Turalyon did not quite manage it.

The group began to move, the elves in front and back, surrounding the mages, the griphons flying low, heading into the hills, Alleria gracefully came up to Khadgar.

"Hills such as those have caverns. We should shelter ourselves here before we make our next move." She said. The archmage nodded, and then noticed that she had reverted to her closed, introspective mien. He coughed.

"What troubles you ?" he asked bluntly. When she blinked, he scoffed at her. "Don't say nothing is wrong. You've always been morose, but you've been worse these days. You fight with Turalyon, you neglect some of your duties…"

"I owe you no explanation." She answered stiffly.

"Not so far." He amended. And that was that for the present.

It was then that they heard it. The roar. From afar, yet it was clear to the ear. It was a deep roar, from something far larger than what they had faced. Something far older than even the high elven civilization.

It was Deathwing's challenge to them. In answer, Kurdran had his griphons crow as hard as they could.

_You have come to your deaths. Be ready_, said the challenge in Khadgar's ears. It made him shiver. But the rider's defiant reply was something his heart completely agreed with.

It meant : _to our deaths or our survival, we have come to destroy you. Be ready_.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Minvare's estate, Azeroth_

Rellon Minvare did not feel at peace with himself.

He hadn't been able to for years, ever since the light in his life had been forever extinguished. Had she been killed in battle, like so many had been, the former general would have been able to take his grief in and heal himself. Of that, he was certain. He had, after all, done it many times during the two great wars which had shaken civilization across the whole known world.

But hanged publicly, like a common thief ? For all of her misjudgements and missteps concerning her oaths to the Alliance, Jennala Ironhorse had been an excellent soldier, who had aided the free peoples struggle against the mighty enemy. She had deserved to die with some dignity.

But the laws had denied it. Turalyon, as High General, had denied it to her. And, most damning of all, he had been unable to do anything but watch her as she hanged.

It had tortured him for years, even as the Alliance leaders heaped rewards upon him, as the people hailed him in the streets. His bitterness, which he had tried hard to fight, had grown until he could no longer control it.

His friends Eltrass and Swiftblade, who had condemned Jennala only with great reluctance, had tried to support and help him, but he had pushed them away. Eventually, the people began to notice that something was wrong, of his iciness. But nothing compared to what was happening now.

He was tainted to them now. Tainted to the army, that he had let down during a battle. And tainted to his own people, whom he had let down. His misdeed was beginning to spread, with many ill effects to his reputation. How long, he wondered at times, before he became nothing but a villain ?

"How destructive love can be." He muttered to himself, looking down from the rebuilt window his rebuilt castle, looking over the fields and hills his family had owned for three generations.

His homesteads had been the only place where people would leave him alone. He left all business to his herald, and stayed most of the day in his study, remembering old times over a cup of wine or a mug of ale. He was far becoming a derelict, and soon he would have nothing left to him but death. He welcomed that, hoping he could be allowed to beg forgiveness to his love one day.

"Pathetic." He sneered, this time in self-reproach. "My lord Minvare, you have become nothing but a pathetic wretch."

"Sadly, that is your own fault." A voice told him softly, making nearly jump out of his skin in shock. He turned about with all the reflexes he could muster, unsheathing the short sword he often kept with him, and pointing it at a black-garbed intruder, whose face was lost in the darkness of s deep cloak.

"State your business," he snapped coldly, "Or taste steel. The choice is yours. I suggest you choose this instant."

"There is no need to be aggressive." The person spoke with what Minvare immediately detected as a female voice, albeit a strange one. He kept his sword steady, however.

"You come into my castle uninvited, magi," He retorted coldly, "You intrude upon my privacy with arrogance. I would think that I have every right to be as aggressive as I choose."

"That, I understand." Came the quick reply. "But I swear to you that I mean you no harm."

"And yet you have not stated your business. Do so, and then we can talk of harm."

There was a moment of silence, during which neither moved. Minvare found the presence in front of himself unnerving to say the least, much of the caution coming from the fact that the being hadn't moved at all yet. As far as he was concerned, only the dead or the best of assassins could stand in such a way.

"As you wish. I came to talk to you specifically, Lord Minvare."

"And for what reason would that be ?" He snapped, his eyes narrowed.

"Why," came the voice, as if genuinely surprised, "To make use of the skills for which you have become so renowned, of course."

Minvare stopped himself from laughing at that with all of his bitterness. The cheek of the woman, and of whomever had sent her, was magnificently clear for all to see. Her effrontery almost dissipated his anger, and it was only with a smirk that he answered what she had said. She seemed to read him, well, however, for she nodded, her first true movement in the entire event.

'So there is a living being underneath, after all.' He thought to himself. He found a bit of relief in that fact – living beings could be killed more easily if the need arose.

"What you ask for is impossible. I am no longer a General." He replied.

"I never asked you to work for the Alliance, Lord Minvare." Came the cool reply. "But for my own army. Cast off your old life, and live anew."

This time, Minvare was moving, his instincts as a soldier taking over, something pushing him forward. He saw the woman raising her arm in spellcasting, but it was too late. A caster, so close, was vulnerable, and he ploughed into her. What surprised him was that, far from crumbling, his enemy fluidly rolled under his blow, taking his arm and flinging him against a wall.

Reflexes saved him, forcing him to crash against the floor, where and rolled and came up in an instant. His muscles, aged and unused to the effort, screamed, but he refused to heed what they said. To do so meant to slow down, and to slow down meant death. He crouched, ready to pounce on the cloaked woman, only to find her crouching as well, fully expecting his attack.

Minvare realized that he wasn't in a very good position. The skills were there, but they were deeply covered in the rust of negligence. The days of facing orcs in single combat were long gone. He wasn't ready to face someone whose skills were clearly those of an assassin, mixed with those of a magi. Still, he circled around, waiting for an opening.

"Did our negotiations truly break down so utterly?" came the innocent question.

"I may have been cast out because of my negligence on the battlefield," Minvare stated, "Yet I remain loyal to the Alliance of Lordaeron. You will not make me forsake my beliefs, dark one."

"That has never been my intention. I merely wished to talk." Came the smooth reply in the same strange voice.

"And we have talked. Now it is time for you to depart."

"So it is." She said, and stepped back swiftly, snapping three words of arcane might. She then seemed to look at Minvare, although he could only feel it rather than see it. It was as if everything which was happening was preordained, as if nothing surprised her. He lowed his sword a moment.

"But before I leave, let me ask this question: is your loyalty to your beloved Alliance truly what you want?" And as she spoke the last word, she vanished, as if she was but a nightmare.

But the state of his study showed that this was clearly not the case. That woman – that strange woman, with her annoyingly alluring words! – had been there, and had made her offer.

The door was flung open, and guards entered in a hurry.

"Milord, what happened?" one of them asked, taking in the shambled room. "Are you well?"

Minvare considered a moment before replying, and finally nodded. Within moments the guards were out, and a maid quickly came to start putting her lord's study in order. The ex-general, for himself, only kept looking outside, pensively.

He had rejected the offer, but it had struck a cord within his being, a cord which resonated with his grief and resentment. He knew he should not listen, and yet there seemed to be nothing he could do about it.

And that begged only one question.

"Am I still a man of the Alliance, aye or nay?"

His soul trembled at the possibilities.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Moonbrooke, Azeroth_

Eira felt rather uncomfortable when she looked at the food laid before her. It was something which had started when she had begun to live with her husband, during the first years of the Exile, in Tarren Mill.

Tarren Mill had boomed from a small village to a large town within months, with thousands of Azerothians building houses and taking over from the few hundreds of Lordearils who had lived there far longer. Although it never reached the heights of Hillsbrad – going from six hundred to over seventeen thousand – it had changed dramatically.

Eira's father had seen the fall of Azeroth as a very real possibility, and during the later years of the war, had sent most of his wealth to secure places in Lordaeron, telling only his wife, son, and daughter about them. As such, Eira found herself in possession of an extensive wealth, had bought an old estate, refurbished it, and took her place as the leading family in Taren Mill.

Her husband, Aerth, had mostly gone along with it, although he never took more money than was needed for his own affairs, only indulging in books and maps. But he was keenly against eating luxuriously while many amongst the people suffered. He consequently ate bread and cheese, and took only vegetables any in the town could have, as well as ale below his means.

It had infuriated her at first. Over the next few months, however, she came to see the suffering with his eyes, as he organized the troops in the town to distribute the food surplus, tended to supplies, and declared harsh periods of rationing when necessary. Eira eventually accepted the reduced lifestyle, although she came back to it after the surrounding farmlands produced enough to feed the whole population easily enough.

But she never forgot what it meant to be wealthy in a poor town.

Now, in Moonbrooke, she was seeing it again, and she felt unease, even some disgust, at the sight.

Fine meats of tarps and geese ran over finely cut vegetables, even as servants served an assortment of cheeses and fine white bread. Wine, imported from Kul Tiras, was served as well, and delicacies were aplenty. The richness of the food reminded her of her home in Sunshire, although their table was not often so laden with food. Her husband had never liked to waste food, and she had adopted his habit on it to a degree.

Lord Zavier Mearine, the one who hosted Lady Prestor and herself, certainly seemed to want to impress the two high ladies with a feast worthy of a ducal banquet. But for all of the man's flowery words, Eira felt that this white-faced, queer, agitated man could not be trusted. How could he, after all, not spend more money on his town rather than on his supper?

"Lady Swiftblade, do you know that this clock on the far wall was made by a Swiftblade?" The queer lord said, showing a grandfather clock, ticking methodically amidst its lavishly decorated surroundings. There were marks on it, she noted. "I see you glancing at the marks. Yes, they come from the war. This is one of the few surviving pieces."

"My husband told me his father was a fine clockmaker." She admitted. How easily those words came to her lips today. For years, she had been ashamed of her husband's past as a simple artisan's son. But that had passed.

"Your illustrious husband sells his father too short. The man was a master clockmaker! That one of his creations survived through the Second War proves this!"

Eira looked at the clock. Was the man telling the truth, or was he simply trying to sound interesting, to ingratiate himself? After all, House Swiftblade was wealthy, its patriarch had the ears of the King, and its place on the House of Nobles' highest council was a fact. It would be a normal move for a man of a smaller noble house to play upon feelings to gain a better position.

Still, if this was a genuine piece, Eira wanted it. She still had mementos of her parents, including some portraits. Aerth had nothing but his memories. To have something his own father constructed in his own castle would be a joy to him when he came back from his latest expedition. Of that, the noblewoman was certain.

"How much?" she asked. The pale man looked at her a moment, then scratched his beardless chin.

"This is an excellent clock, made by a master clockmaker," he mused idly. "And the fact that it's a relic of Moonbrook as it once was… it couldn't let it go at less than four hundred gold pieces."

"Done. The money will be given to you before five tendays are done." Eira stated smoothly. The price was outrageous, and she knew it. But she didn't want to haggle with this man. And, at the same time, she wanted to give him a taste of the wealth – and, consequently, the power – that House Swiftblade could bring to bear.

His eyes widened, followed by a pleased grin. "I normally would ask for confirmation," he said, "But your House has a reputation for honesty as well as military ability. I will trust you to the payment."

"I thank you." She answered. "My husband will certainly be most pleased. In fact, I might counsel him to come to you if ever he wishes to come survey his old hometown." Privately, she vowed to steer her beloved Aerth away from the idea of ever stepping inside that house. It seemed to genuinely please the man, who said that his house would always be open for people as famed as Aerth Swiftblade.

Katrana, for her part, seemed to look at Eira with some slight amusement, nodding as if she could read her thoughts. The last of House Fregar suddenly felt like she couldn't stand the room, and excused herself with all the civility she could muster, and making her way to her room.

It was an opulent room, but the colours used – reds and deep browns and blacks – gave the place a dark feel. She barely could stand being there, not to mention sleeping there.

Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would leave and return to Sunshire. The trip had been a waste of her time, and she wished to return to the brighter city, where the shadows didn't seem as long and where the sun seemed to shine brighter.

"Lady Eira Fregar Swiftblade, Duchess of Sunshire, and lady of one of the strongest Houses in the House of Nobles." A voice said, tinged with grim amusement and definite contempt.

Eira did not cry out. Crying out was a sign of weakness, of hesitation – something she had outgrown years ago. Instead, she grabbed the dagger she always kept on herself , and swivelled, putting in position towards the sound of the voice, crouching slightly, even before she even tried to see who could be there.

It turned out to be a man. Black-haired, dressed in black leather, and wearing a red scarf, the man was only of normal height, but exuded a strong aura of command. He seemed to barely notice the weapon she held before her.

"Good reaction, from a noble." He noted, his voice mild yet unfriendly. "Greetings, milady."

She forced herself to sound as casual as possible. Don't show weakness, she told herself, never. "You know my name, sir, but I do not know yours."

"A mistake, easily rectified. My named is Edwin VanCleef, leader of the Defias, and enemy of the House of Nobles."

Eira felt a chill run down her spine. Edwin Vancleef, once one of the greatest architects in the kingdom, now one of his most despised bandits. She had wanted to make the Defias notice, but certainly not this much, and this directly.

"I see." She managed to say, "And what do you wish of me?"

"Only to talk, madam. But not here." He answered, and then the shadows near Eira seemed to move, and there was a flash of movement. The noblewoman tried to turn, but before she could, pain erupted throughout her body, too swift for her to even cry out. She tried to steady herself, but found herself falling, down on the ground.

Outside her dimming vision, she heard VanCleef musing, "No, definitely not here."

Then darkness.

* * *

**Capital City of Stromgarde: Remnant of the Empire**

The capital of Stromgarde, Redgates, is what remains of Strom, the great city-state which once dominated much of the known world, and was the center of the greatest human nation there ever was, Arathor.

While Strom was once a great metropolis of over one hundred thousand citizens, Redgates is only one-tenth that amount, sprawled over what had once been the military section of the city. Rebuilt and refurbished, Lord Trollbane's palace used to be the main compound of the Imperial Guard, and still retains some of its glorious, martial past.

And, all around Redgates, the remnants of the city can still be seen, if barely, almost buried by earth and time.


	18. Chapter Seventeen: Dignity and Despair

**Chapter Seventeen: Dignity and Despair**

_Early Spring 607, Near Honour Hold, Draenor _

There was such a thing to travelling in company. It helped to negate boredom. Riding alongside someone had always been something Aerth had liked, from his early days as a young squire to his present retinue.

"So, you are Lord-General Aerth Swiftblade."

Of course, there were moments when riding alone was fine with the general. At that moment, he would have liked to be doing anything else than escorting a young elf to his father.

'No.' he corrected himself quickly. 'Half-elf. A human paladin as a father, and an elven ranger as a mother. How…peculiar a mix.'

Swiftblade could see the differences, after a few seconds. The child was somewhat lacking in some of the grace the high elves possessed, and his ears weren't quite as pointed or long. He also had a certain sturdiness to him which spoke of human strength and stamina. There was the faint glow of the high elves in his eyes, but dimmer, and those very eyes looked more human than elven.

The general remembered the first time he'd seen a half-elf, a traveller who'd gone through on market day while he had been with his mother to buy vegetables. The man had looked in rough shape, with tattered clothes and a mismatched hat. Nothing unusual in Moonbrooke, though, as it was – at the time – a powerful center of commerce for the entire, bountiful, Westfall region.

Then a gust of wind had swept the hate away, and all had seen the man's ears, and his face. At once, there had been changes in the attitude the people had for the man. Stares, rising prices, all signs of discomfort, even some hostility, which even the few elves who came to barter never quite had.

He had seen quite a few half-elves afterwards, and the situation had often shown itself to be the same. A human or an elf was fine, it seemed, but a hybrid of the two was not. Foolishness in the general's mind, but that was the way things were.

This child, however, seemed to be different. Raised as a child of Alleria Windrunner, the eldest of the Windrunner sisters, he had known the trappings of nobility, which had seemingly sheltered him from the two races he had been born from.

"I am." He said, answering the child's question. It seemed to make the child pensive, as if this was not quite the answer he was expecting. Delicate, near-elven eyebrows contracted.

"You fought beside the Windrunners and the Knights of the Silver Hand often?"

"It has been my honour to do so." He answered truthfully. "I fought beside your father and mother many times, young Arator."

"My aunt, Lady Sylvanas and my uncle, Lord Illadan, have spoken much of your strength and bravery. My uncle said you once stopped an army six times your numbers." There was a flash in those eyes, belying the boy's calm face. It seemed he wished to know more. It reminded Swiftblade of his son Vedran enough to abate his unease somewhat.

"You speak of the Battle of Zul'Dare." He muttered, nostalgia gripping him an instant. Fifteen years had passed since that battle, and yet it always remained clear to him. Giving the boy a small smile, he began to recount the battle, from the mismatched army he was given, through the trick to get the bulk of the troops off the base, all the way to the remaining orcs' decimation.

By the time he had finished, Honour Hold came within view. With the Armoury and the Portal Base having been found rather hard to defend, Turalyon had asked the human, dwarven and elven workers to relocate the bulk of the expedition's defences to a hill, which was now being surrounded by a small, of growing, stone wall.

Within it, barracks, a church of the Holy light, and even some rough farms were being built, even while forges fired and horses rode. Honour Hold was small, yet it was a good example of what the main races of the Alliance could accomplish if they worked together.

He saw that the young man was growing restless, even though he had been nearly unflappable most of the way. One of the elven stewards, who had insisted to come, saw the general's look and gave an explanation.

"It is the first time Lord Arator will meet his father in five years." Came the simple reply. The knights guarding the small convoy shifted at that, and Swiftblade was certain they were dismayed under those heavy steel helms. It was similar to what Swiftblade felt, although his dismay was waylaid by comprehension and the need not to be hypocritical.

"I see." Was all he said, solemn. "I am certain your father will be pleased to see you, young sir." He actually doubted it. There were far too many reasons why Turalyon simply could _not_ be happy that it almost made the knight feel ashamed. The tense looks the elves gave him showed that they did not think the paladin would be pleased, either.

It exploded in Aerth's mind, clear as crystal: this was all Alleria's doing. Who else would manage to convince Sylvanas Windrunner to send her nephew from Windrunner Spire and take such a risk as to send him to Dreanor. Not something the powerful paladin would have approved.

It was becoming troublesome indeed, this fight between elf and human. But, seeing what he saw, he supposed he understood the situation between them a little better.

"Light preserve me," he breathed, "What strange days these are."

Then he spotted something which threw out all of his musings to the winds. In the distance, stood the newly-built walls of Honour Hold, with its utilitarian buildings and keep being built within. But what he also saw was large force being gathered near its gates.

"Captain…" he asked one of his aides, a knight who often rode with him. "That force. Two, three thousand heads?"

The knight gave the gathering a view even as they all rode. "Closer to three thousand than two, milord."

"Three thousand men, with several being mounted." He mused, nodding, "That's… sound. Yes, quite sound, tactically-speaking. Less would not be much in the way of reinforcements." He gave the elves a look, then bowed to the young Arator slightly. "Lord Arator, it appears you will have to wait a while at the keep. Your father will be occupied."

"I could…" the young man began, and Swiftblade cut him off with finality, his face losing all forms of politeness, his features hardening in an instant."

"You misunderstand. That was an order." He didn't wait for the elves to begin to vent their indignation, instead focusing on his own knights. "Those I assigned for close surveillance will remain with Lord Arator and his retinue. The rest of you will ride with me! Onward!"

There was no question, and the elven protests were lost to the winds. Swiftblade had given an order. And when he gave one, the genteel façade left its place to the rough knight who had once fought orc raiders toe-to-toe in the midst of the lush Elwynn forests and the gentle hills of Azeroth's heartlands.

He rode, and they came with him. He would deal with the elves later. If there ever was one. It was with that very state of mind that he came upon Turalyon, as he overlooked his troops. He saw them coming calmly. There was no tension on the paladin's face, only determination. This was old grounds for them both.

Barely a nod, and then Swiftblade asked, with a tone born of certainty. "Danath's forces?"

"Nearly falling back. They're outnumbered five to one."

"Do they still hold the heights of the hills?"

"That, they do." The paladin mused, "So far."

The knight and paladin exchanged what was almost a grin. This was their element. This was where they came to life.

"Then," Swiftblade drawled, "While we race to aid our allies, I have something to tell you, albeit… you may not quite like it. And after you've recovered from the news, lets see how we can bloody the orcs badly enough to make them reconsider their ploy."

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Westfall, Azeroth_

Eira emerged from the blackness wondering if she had. She knew she had opened her eyes, and yet she could not see anything. Her head, which hurt as if she'd drunk a full bottle of the dwarven ale her husband sometimes insisted on drinking, did not help matters at all. Her ideas refused to clear, the cobwebs staying on even as she tried to focus.

"W-w-what…" she stuttered, then clamped her mouth shut. If she could not speak properly, she would not until she could. There was nothing else to that. Still her sight did not return.

She refused to acknowledge panic, instead forcing herself to focus. She tried to put a hand to her eyes to check, but found that she could not move. That, too, elicited a burst of panic, harder to contain this time. She shivered.

'Enough.' She berated herself, 'You heard yourself talk, and your feel your body. Just…concentrate. Focus.

She did, and the pain receded a bit, as did the cobwebs in her mind's eye. Not completely, of course, but enough for Eira to think clearly. She forced herself to remember. She had been having an awkward dinner…with lady Perenolde and that fawning, strange lord the two noblewomen were staying with. She had gone to her room, and then…

'Of course.' She told herself grimly, remembering her meeting with Van Cleef, the leader of the growing, feared Defias Brotherhood. The conversation had been tense, and then she had been hit from behind, losing to the blackness from which she had just emerged. It put things back in clear – if grim – perspective.

'I am…on something.' She felt carefully. 'Wood, I would say. My eyes see nothing because of a blindfold.' She slightly moved her hands and legs, quickly checking. 'My hands and legs are tied, which is why I cannot move them. A… distressful situation. But at least I understand something of it.'

She could feel more, as well. What she was on was moving, and she could pick up voices, not far away. She was likely on some sort of cart, being driven to a Defias hideout. 'A guarded one.' She decided. 'They would not have gone through the trouble of slipping through the guards which came with us to let me escape easily.' At that moment, Eira decided to wait and see what would happen.

The ride continued for some time, and the noblewoman allowed herself to drift to sleep, hoping the added rest would help her heal whatever was affecting her so badly. She dreamed strange dreams, of falling towers, gleaming purple, and of chariots of fire. Aerth appeared in it, as did Minvare. They did not stand together, though, as of old, but faced each other over what appeared to be a battlefield. Aerth…his hair…no longer simple grey… almost white. And Minvare's face… it was…

It was…

She was jarred awake as the cart came to the stop. The voices began to grow near. Feeling the side of the cart, she forced herself into a sitting position. She then listened carefully, eager for any sound which would give away something, or any smell which might do the same.

A ruffling of something. A creak. And then a deep voice.

"You awake, eh?" the voice said, seemingly not caring about that at all. Eira believed it, too. She had heard enough tales of the brotherhood. Even around Sunshire, or Goldshire, they were active, although it paled compared to the Westfall area. "Good. Saves us the trouble of carrying you down."

'Down?' she wondered, and kept that information in mind. Someone fiddled with what bound her legs, and she found herself free. She barely had time to register this before she was hauled up and down on the ground, which seemed to be rocky and dry to the sound of it. She tried hard not to sway despite her wobbly legs.

'Come on, now.' The voice said, and she was roughly taken by the shoulders by what appeared to be large hands and pushed from behind. She tried not to let her imagination run wild, yet there was little she could do within the darkness.

She found herself within something rocky and hollow, and large – a cavern of some kind, judging by the echoes. She heard the sounds of carts moving, people talking farther away, or talking. She remembered that Moonbrooke had once been mining town, had in fact started that way long before it had evolved into the mercantile and agricultural center for Westfall.

Aerth had told her about the mines, how he had once ventured into them as a youth, nearly getting lost in the process. The mines, he had told her, probably went for miles, and certainly went deep.

'Deep, with much space,' she reflected, 'perfect for the Brotherhood.' Not that it helped her much, however, what with her having to keep her feet, stumbling every time she hit a snag or walked on a loose rock.

The men who were roughly prodding her along and – from what she surmised – ever deeper, did not help her much, only keeping her on the road they wished her to follow. They seemed to want her to struggle. If they hated the nobility that much, she reasoned, then she must be a perfect target for their ire. She thought that, had they wanted her dead, she would be. However, there existed mental as well as physical torture. And this was a bit of both.

But Eira's nobility had been raised into her. It had been what had allowed her to survive the burning of Sunshire and the loss of her family. It had allowed her to spurn the advances of the dangerous, power-maddened Duraz when she well knew that she was at his mercy. She was certainly not about to break to a few irate thugs, she promised herself. She held herself as proudly as she could, and endured in silence.

After what seemed to be an eternity, she heard another sound. Water. 'An underground lake? How deep are we?' she wondered, even as the noise and the construction appeared to increase tenfold.

Finally, there was a voice she recognized.

"Ah, Lady Eira!" came the voice of Van Cleef, clear to her ears. He seemed somewhat shocked at what he was seeing. "I say, this isn't good! Untie the lady, she will be a guest here, and I refuse to be a bad host."

Her blindfold was removed, her hands freed, and she blinked at the light grimly, refusing to flinch. She let her eyes adjust themselves to the gloom of the lanterns, seeing a multitude of scaffoldings, and workers going to and from. She recognized some of them – artisans and worker who had reconstructed Stormwind Keep and its surrounding city in record time. In front of her, smiling slightly, was Van Cleef himself. The others, she saw, were already moving away.

'They don't see me as a threat.' She mused irritably. Then reason asserted itself. 'They have a fine point of it.'

Van Cleef half-bowed, a little mockingly. "Welcome to my humble home, Lady."

She gave him a frosty smile and curtsied in defiance. "You honour me, sir."

Her reaction seemed to please him somewhat, as he brightened, nodding. She was being gauged, she saw, and he liked what he was seeing.

"You are your husband's wife, indeed. You're strong-willed, as he is." He said. "That's exactly why we don't want to harm you as of yet."

She heard the last part clearly, and the warning within it just as clearly. But she refused to acknowledge it openly. She crossed her aching arms under her breast calmly.

"So, you fear my husband's wrath?" she inquired. This seemed to amuse Van Cleef more than anything else.

"Nothing so dramatic, though I wouldn't want to have him against me." He mused, "You see, milady, your husband is a powerful war leader, and we need his expertise. We need him to plan with us."

She scoffed at that openly. The idea of Aerth betraying the King was so ridiculous she rejected it in an instant. "My husband would never betray the Alliance, and I would never betray him."

"Ah." He mused, sounding disappointed. Then his eyes brightened in such a fashion that Eira almost shivered. There was something truly mad in those eyes now. "But what if I had an incentive?"

"Such as?" she asked, her eyes flashing. He grinned.

"My dear lady, your husband and I have a boy named Vedran, don't you?" he said, and his eyes twinkled as he took in what must have been her widening eyes.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Elwynn, Azeroth_

The Knights of the Silver Hand. The defenders of mankind, endowed with the Holy Light and the strength to banish demons. Theron Gorefiend, as an undead, had fought these paladins many times over the years, most of the time successfully. Although these humans were as skilled as the Knights of Azeroth Gorefiend and his fellow Death Knights inhabited in undeath, their few powers were usually puny next to his necromancy.

There had been exceptions, of course. Some of the paladins were dangerous threats, and the undead being had once seen their archbishop, Alonsus Faol, banishing three of his brethren with a few gestures and spoken words.

It was for that reason that he and his people had chosen to skirt around the rebuilt Northshire Abbey. Too many paladins and priests lived and trained there, although it appeared that the Archbishop and his highest clergy now lived within their so-called Cathedral of Light, in Stormwind itself.

Still, Theron figured, one did not survive throughout the ages by making foolish mistakes. He had died once before, defending his master Gul'Dan. He had not intention of doing such a foolish gesture again.

"Theron, should we risk a teleportation spell?" one of his brethren wondered in his usual, hollow voice.

"Around this place?" he wondered. "No. We should not risk it. This area is scryed too often for magical spells. They could trace us."

"We have moved past Northshire…"

"But not its influence." He reminded them sternly, "Remember the powerful artefact we carry, and be silent when it comes to my decisions!"

They didn't like that tone. He found he couldn't care less. Dead or not, he had always been their superior, second only to Gul'Dan in power. That hadn't changed when they returned. And with Gul'Dan dead, Gorefiend was the strongest warlock in existence.

Unless, of course, one counted Ner'Zhul. But whatever the case, the old orc shaman would be very happy to receive this document, so well-guarded in the magical vaults of Stormwind Keep and taken at great cost. The death knight had held it in his hands, had opened it.

The Book of Medhiv, written by a mortal human, yet a human so powerful that the spells written within the thick, runes-carved pages of the archived spells could only be opened with a special key.

Humans and their love of barriers and keys.

And, yet, such power within that particular barrier! Medhiv had been feared, and Gorefiend partly understood why. It made his soul burn with desire, the desire to learn. To control!

But death had thought the former warlock many things. He no longer felt the bloodlust which had afflicted his race. Rather, he felt that he had acquired patience and sense. And that patience told him that he wasn't ready to even peek into Medhiv's works, much less understand them. But the day he felt ready…

Something flashed through his mind. The magical alarm he'd set had been triggered. So they hadn't managed to lose pursuit, even using the backwater trails.

"They're coming." He mused, stopping his nightmare. He then intoned strings of arcane words, channelling the dark magic to do his bidding, which manifested in the magical, transparent eyeball that horde magic-users had come to call, often mockingly, Kilrogg's Eye.

With his mind, he ordered it forward, and he saw the image of its flight within his mind's eye. It sped back throughout the gloom of the darkening evening, and the shadows of the mighty Elwynn forest which had recovered from his people's depredations amazingly fast. It wasn't long before he saw them: a group of twelve humans. They wore heavy armour, and carried heavy weapons. All of them carried the tabard of the Royal Guard of Stormwind.

None of them were magic-users. None of them had the awareness of being watched. Oversight? Pride? It didn't matter. They were catching up. They would face Gorefiend and his fellows.

And they would die here. Twelve knights, against four Death Knights? The thought was laughable.

They came, arrayed in their armour, prepared to defend their kingdom's honour, or their king. Knights had been like that in both wars the Horde had fought against them, first against Azeroth alone, and then against the Alliance. They stopped and glared at the Death Knights, seemingly unaware of their impending doom.

"Monsters." One growled in challenge, hefting a heavy mace, "In the name of King Varien Wrynn and the Knights of Stormwind, you will pay for breaching Stormwind Keep."

"Pretty words, human." Gorefiend said, his hollow voice drowning the human's cries. "But foolish. I have no time spared for you. Turn around, and you will live a few years longer of your pathetic mortal life."

They wouldn't of course. Their system of honour was as foolish and unyielding as his people's own few blademasters, of which few took part in the wars.

He wasn't disappointed.

"Have at thee, monster!" The knight growled, and as if on cue, the humans charged, heavy swords, lances, hammers and maces at the ready.

Gorefiend and the other death knights raised their hands and summoned the powers of necromancy to do their bidding. Filled with the remnants of the land's violent history, the winds picked up and swarmed around the humans, who hesitated at the sight. It was another proof, Gorefiend realized, that these knights either lacked preparation, or simply lacked training. A sane, experienced knight would have ran away.

The surprise and wariness soon gave way to yells of pain, as the humans literally saw each other aging at an quick rate, their skin and muscle melting away, desiccated, as they screamed in agony. Weapons fell from nerveless hands, and the horses panicked.

This was what saved a few of the knights. They felt Gorefiend's spell, felt the eerie quality of the air, and decided to bolt. They sped on the opposite side, carrying their enfeebled riders with them.

The other knights, however, weren't so lucky. Turning into aged men, they collapsed and turned to dust one by one. They fell from their weakened mounts, and let their remains lie where they should be.

Gorefiend surveyed the damage and mused. "Pathetic."

"Foolish mortals." Another death knight announced quietly. "No powers, no special abilities, and they still tried to attack us!"

"Such is mankind's way." Yet another stated.

Gorefiend didn't share his comrade's cold elation. Although he knew that these never could have been a challenge, their actions would draw others to this point. Other like paladins or wizards from Dalaran. Against these, things wouldn't be quite so easy.

He looked down at the book he suddenly realized it had opened by itself, and a shiver ran through his undead body. It wasn't so much a physical impression than a mental one. This book seemed more powerful every time the Death Knight looked at it. Gorefiend quickly closed it, and put it back in the pouch he reserved for it.

"Magic, eh?" he muttered. "Well, well… lets go at once."

His people didn't argue much. After all, they knew the importance of what they were carrying back. No less than the Horde's very survival hinged on them not being defeated, killed or detained.

"We need to go faster." He said. "This book must be given to Ner'Zhul."

From Ner'Zhul, the book's secrets would be revealed. And from then, Gorefiend would gain a way to take the power back to himself.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Northshire Abbey, Azeroth_

Being a Paladin for many years had changed Uther Lightbringer, that much he knew. He no longer was the faith-driven youth who, after an unhappy, hollow childhood, had been sent to Northshire Abbey. Yet the place had always remained a home for both his body as well as for his soul.

Painfully reconstructed, with great care and attention to detail, the old Abbey had recovered nearly all of its former, serene glory. Gutted walls had been refurbished, often by the hands of priests and paladins as well as stonemasons and carpenters, while the glass murals had been rebuilt to their exact original designs. Statues had been lovingly rebuilt as well, with art and magical aid, and the grounds cleaned and replanted.

Now, in this place at least, it seemed that the Second War had never occurred. There, through the lit corridors, with the sun shining through the multicoloured glass, passed scribes and scholars, priests and young paladins, while choirs sang to the Holy Light and others calmly read from holy books penned by ancient priests and philosopher of the Light.

Six hundred years ago, when the Light had been announced as the true way of the human mind, the secular leaders of the different cults had met, and embraced the Light together. Holy men and women all, they had sanctified the grounds and built a round temple, around which the Abbey had grown. Here, even more than in the Cathedral of the Light in mighty Stormwind, purity flowed, chasing away the darkness.

"Here, Prince Arthas." The paladin said with a smile, "Here is where the light saturates the air itself. No darkness can take hold in this place. He gave the gawking Prince of Lordaeron a fond look.

That fondness quickly turned to mild irritation when the holy warrior realized that his charge wasn't actually gawking at the holy sanctum, but was grinning at a rather lovely female initiate, who seemed to be caught between temptation and rebuke, blushing at the handsome young man's attentions.

There was no way that Uther was about to let anything of the romantic sort happen in one of the Light's most holy places. Stepping forward, he reached out and tapped the prince smartly on the head, making him jump and yell, making some heads turn their way for a few moments. The young initiate took this opportunity to take her hasty leave. Prince and Paladin glared at each other for a moment.

"Did you _have_ to hit me, Uther?" Arthas complained mildly, rubbing his head slightly.

"I've noticed that it does get quick results with you. Have you completely forgotten where we are?" he chided. "Now behave yourself. I'll not have you bother the Archbishop with your antics."

"Prince Arthas. Sir Uther." A priest said, bowing to them in turn. "His Eminence the Archbishop will see you. This way please." The trio marched down one of the corridors.

"The Archbishop lives here? But why?" Arthas whispered.

"He is a man of faith, of great faith." Uther mused, unable to keep the reverence from his voice. "But here, in the crux of the Light, is where he prefers to live. Stormwind, he leaves to Bishop Benedictus."

"He is your master, isn't he?" Arthas asked.

"My teacher, Arthas. Not my master." Uther corrected. "Like myself and Muradin are to you."

They passed through the arches and ways of the Abbey, passing many places of prayer and meditation, and finally entered the inner sanctum itself. The large, circular room was illuminated by light at the top, built of clear, crystal from Khaz Modan. Benches were aligned to each side of an altar, where the statue of a winged woman, holding the original Book of the Light, stood upon an altar, smiling benevolently.

The inner sanctum, it was said, was actually the original temple, and six hundred years of faith and prayer had made it impassable to those corrupted. After all, the sanctum had been found intact by the priest amidst the ruins of the Abbey.

Uther's eyes widened as he saw the man seated in a simple, wooden chair. An old man, dressed in the gold and white of the office of Archbishop. A man whose face radiated both fierce devotion and calm acceptance. Alonsus Faol, renowned as the greatest living cleric, smiled as he saw Uther enter.

"Uther, my son," the old priest stated gently, "I am so happy to see you. And welcome to you, as well, Prince Arthas."

Uther walked three steps, and fell to one knee, kneeling with more devotion than he had ever kneeled to anyone, even Terenas Menethil of Lordaeron. Beside him, after a moment of hesitation, Arthas did the same. The old man chuckled at that.

"Always so proper, my good Uther." The aged man mused, "But I see no need for either of you to kneel. Rise, and let us sit there." He mused, and gestured to one of the benches.

"Your Eminence, we cannot possibly-!" Uther said, while he noted that it did not seem to bother the few clerics dusting the relics. Faol stopped him with a gentle wave.

"Psaw, psaw. The Light is forgiving enough to let you sit with your old teacher. Come. We will have tea soon. But we can talk in the meantime."

And so it was that they sat with the man who was, as far as the Knights of the Silver Hand were concerned, the greatest of all the Archbishops in the realms. Uther was starting to feel like a young initiate again, and Arthas, sitting, seemed lost.

"So, Uther. I heard you came through the magic of Dalaran to come here." He said, "What news of the north?"

Uther coughed. He had hoped to waylay this a bit, yet he found it impossible to beat around the bush with his old teacher.

"The truth, Your Eminence," he began, "Is that the northern realms are not as safe as they seem from Northshire of from King Varien's throne in Stormwind Keep. The powers of necromancy…" he began to explain, and at that point a priest entered, puffing, his jowls trembling slightly as he attempted to regain his breath. The Archbishop rose to his feet, as did Uther.

"What has happened, Father Ulvik?" the old man intoned, demanding gently. This seemed to force the other man to steady himself.

"Your Eminence, forgive me." Ulviak coughed, "But, people… found on the… road… knights… the dead…" He mumbled.

"The dead?" Uther mused, "What has happened?"

The priest finally seemed to become coherent again, his breath becoming calmer. Sweat was heavy on him, showing that he must have run a good while.

"There are farmers at the gate with a cart. There are bodies in the cart. Bodies of royal knights." He gasped, "And they were killed by the means of necromantic, life-stealing winds."

"The Death Knights." Faol mused, and there was actual fierceness in the holy man's voice. "Their depredations continue."

"Yes, Your Eminence." The priest said.

"You see, Uther, your spoke of necromancy." The priest told the paladin with some resignation. "Azeroth has been plagued by it as well, lately."

Uther nodded. He had heard enough for his part. He knew that Dalaran might need Alonsus Faol to combat their own blight, but there was no way that a paladin could hear such a tale and not do something.

"Your Eminence, if I may be allowed?" he asked, and when the old man nodded, Uther briskly walked from the room, Arthas at his heels.

"But Dalaran?" The young man queried.

"After we have taken care of these abominations here," The first of the paladins stated, walking through the hallowed halls quickly. "Then we will see for Dalaran's plight."

Such was the way of the Paladin.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Burning Steppes, Wildlands_

Argal Grimfrost looked up.

There is was. Blackrock Spire. The great fortress of the Horde, taken from those called the Dark Iron Dwarves and transformed into the great citadel from which the Horde set to conquer Azeroth, and then the rest of the continent. A behemoth of stone and battlements had been built there, and had been deemed all but impregnable.

But even the Spire's might had fallen when the Second War had pitted the might of nearly all of the orcish race's military forces against that of the Alliance of Lordaeron. The two factions had bled themselves nearly dry to furnish the warriors for that battle, and it was the Horde which had broken first. Broken, despite Orgrim Doomhammer's efforts. Broken despite all of their efforts.

It had been there that Grimfrost himself had faced off against Aerth Swiftblade of the Alliance for the second time. Once again, the two had been equally matched, the human and orc playing a large-scale game of wit and daring. As with the first time, however, the rest of the battle forced the orc to realize that, even if he stalled Swiftblade, eventually other Alliance troops would join the fighting, strengthening him, while his own people were beginning to fight haphazardly, weakening.

He had then made a decision. He had gathered the men whom he trusted to have been little corrupted by the bloodlust, and had taken all the people he could find and fled the battle, choosing the future's instead of the present's doom. Swiftblade, his forces probably spent as well, had let him go.

And then they had come to the Dust Crags, and had founded the Direfang Clan. There they had built their forts and houses, had worked the land as best as they could, and had somewhat prospered over the years. They had, as best as they had been able to, left warfare behind them.

But the times had chosen not to give them such luxury for long. One of their villages had been attacked, by warriors of the Black Tooth Grin Clan, bringing them back to the horrors of war.

Kerak Fadeburn came to stand beside his chieftain. Once of the of the Horde's greatest champions, he had been changed by the human Queen of Kul Tiras, whose words of peace had touched his darkened heart. The huge orc, however, never allowed his martial abilities to wane, a fact exposed through the massive axe he wore. Called Gromkosh, it was truly immense, and few orcs could wield it, and only Kerak could use it with such fearsome skill.

"Throm-ka, Chieftain." He said, nodding respectfully.

"Throm-ka, my friend." He mused, "The fates are playing with us more than ever, don't they?"

"Yes, Chieftain, and I where we are doubly ironic." The great warrior muttered. At Grimfrost's inquisitive look, the huge orc pointed, and the former warlord followed the finger and saw what he meant at once.

"Ah, yes." He said with a sardonic grin. "Orcs rallied under HIS statue is rather… strange. I do wonder how he'd react."

Grimfrost had heard that the humans, grieving over the loss of Anduin Lothar, had erected a great statue in his honour. He hadn't known that the statue had been erected within sight of Blackrock Spire, although the chieftain supposed there was some justification to that.

The statue was large, made of solid rock, showing a human in heavy armour, sword pointing at Blackrock Spire in a gesture of grim defiance. Several had tried to deface the statue before, for it showed the marks of many blows. But Grimfrost had refused, when his people's forces had settled around it, to have it damaged. Enemy or not, Anduin Lothar had been a true warrior, and a true warrior deserved respect.

"Still no answer to our challenge." Grimfrost noted. "Rend and Maim are slow to answer."

"Rend and Maim are cowards." Kerak stated bluntly. "They've always hidden behind their father's name, as if calling themselves Blackhand would put them on par with the one whose blood they share."

Grimfrost had to admit, no matter how much he loathed Blackhand, that there was more than a bit of truth to that. Blackhand had been a strong leader, if bloodthirsty. He had a charisma that his sons had never been able to emulate.

As he thought, his eyes caught movements from the shattered battlements of the Spire. From its bottom levels, he saw others, and a stream of orcs began to slowly emerge from its recesses, sporting the flag of the Blackrock Clan. They were hundreds strong, and their numbers were growing.

"Chieftain…"

"I see them. Waiting for them is over. They won't allow us to stay here and challenge them. Prepare our people for battle."

"Swobu!" The great orc agreed, his tone conveying that no amount of redemptive works and peaceful thoughts had ever completely driven the champion's mindset from him. War had always been where Kerak Fadeburn shone the best and brightest.

Grimfrost heard the shout 'Lok-Narash!' echoing through the encampment, being taken up by others, and soon the entire camp was awash with activity. As Grimfrost watched, the orcs under his command quickly strapped on what armour they had, took and examined weapons, and joined their respective groups. Lancer were ready with many of the deadly missile, and the grunts stood with their axes, behind the mounted wolfriders that Grimfrost had managed to put together over the years.

It was among them that the old warrior descended, his own armour and weapon always sharp and ready. Calls and acclamations tore through the ranks at his side, and there was something within the orc himself which burned with the thrill of battle. He supposed that the bloodlust had never completely been driven out from him, either.

He mounted his direwolf, a grey-streaked black beast of muscle and power, and unslung his axe, seeing the enemy's rough formation, their approach. They were being cautious for now, he realized, but he knew that it wouldn't last. Rend had never been all that prudent, and Maim had been even worse. All that they knew was blunt violence.

"They come, brothers!" he called fiercely, his voice carrying over the din. "The honourless orcs which killed our females and orclings, ours kinsmen and brothers! They come for our blood once again!"

"Then let them come, Chieftain!" Kerak growled, standing among the grunts, and many voices assented. "Let them come and taste our fury!" There was a loud cheer at that, and many grinned in anticipation.

Grimfrost realized that the camaraderie forged over the years of exile held true. No matter what clan they had held allegiance to, his people were now solely of the Direfang Clan.

He saw the enemy orcs coming, and wondered if his eyes were somehow playing tricks on him. Were the enemy grunts and lancers somewhat…grey in tone? He pushed that away for later consideration. Now was the time for fighting. He raised his axe in the air. All of the camp was suddenly silent, except for the occasional shuffle or creak of leather.

"LOK-TAR OGAR!!" the old orc shouted, his voice as strong as ever before.

"LOK-TAR OGAR!!" His people answered, their common shout drowning those of the approaching enemy. Grimfrost pointed his axe forward.

"Lok-Tar!" He shouted again, and his wolf surged forward, followed by all of the other riders, and the grunts roared to life behind them.

The enemy was surging towards them now, their faces shining with hatred, with complete bloodlust. Grimfrost's sight had been true: their skin was rather grey, but why he couldn't tell.

And then they met, in a roar of blood and steel, the two sides met in the middle of the plains, between the orcish fortress and the statue of the human whose efforts had served to bring it down.

To Grimfrost, it was a certainty. The days of peace, at least for now, were over.

The time had come for steel and vengeance.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Goldenmist Village, Quel'Thalas_

Goldenmist Village. A quaint little village, almost eight hundred years old, a standard village in a standard corner of the elven realm. It had been where Darajan Silentgreen had been born, and where he had enjoyed his early days.

The village had always been rather small, never more than a few hundred souls, although it always swelled during the summer festivals, when farmers would come with their harvest. Such was not the time. Harvests were being sown at this moment, and the village was sleepy.

Few people visited the inn these days, as there was no need. Only a slender bridge, built centuries ago when the town had been founded, linked the part of the land on which Goldenmist was built. Some travellers came from the farmlands, and fewer still from the rangers and Windrunner lands to the south. No one from the lands north, in the more populous Eversong Woods, visited at the present time of the years.

Exactly what the mage wanted.

"A fine day, my lord." The innkeeper, a slightly stockier elf, mused gently, while a servant smoothly gave the spellcaster the wine he had ordered.

"Indeed, friend." Darajan assented, for it was a bright day, filled with the scents of life. Sunlight came through the windows to illuminate the rustic, but comfortable, inn interiors. "A fine day. Goldenmist has always felt more like home than Silvermoon, even after three centuries of time. How fares the town?"

"Well enough. As you know, the orcs didn't bother with the town. We lost some of our youths to the war, but rebuilding has gone quickly. Aside from troubles with the murlocs at some places, there's been little trouble."

Darajan nodded. Murlocs were a common sight on many shores, and they tended to build villages where the elves seldom went. They were a problem, but so disorganized that even the simplest militia and farmhands could deal with them. They would never dare to attack a larger settlement like Goldenmist.

Darajan felt so much at home that he almost forgot the vial of Sunwell water he carried with him. Taking this water, if it was ever discovered, would see the mage suffer the worst fate that the high elves could inflict to someone: that of severing him from the Sunwell, and locking him in a special prison, there to suffer until madness and death set in.

From the time of Dath'Remar Sunstrider, the first King of Quel'Thalas, through the ages and change, until the rule of Fenna Pureglade as Queen, only six elves had been inflicted with this judgement, and their tale was used to warn off young apprentices from foolish zeal, and the implications of seeking too much power.

But it had to be done, Darajan had reasoned to himself. His people had lost their way. They had come to rely on the humans, and even on the dwarves, for their protection. Even though many in the Convocation of Silvermoon – including the very powerful Anestarian Sunstrider – were pushing for separation from the Alliance, the fact remained that it was that humans, not the elves, who dictated conduct in the known world.

In the northlands, the words of the human King of Lordaeron, Terenas Menethil, weighed more than that of the entire Convocation. For all of their talk of independence, the high elves were now second to the humans, had been for many centuries. Hadn't it been humans as well, after all, who had forged the Pact of Stormwind.

It was time that the elves of Quel'Thalas regained their pride, Darajan reflected as he sipped his wine while he waited. It was time to remember that theirs was the oldest of the present civilizations. They had to remember that they had come from being exiles to a mighty kingdom, long before the humans united into Arathor. Even before dwarven Ironforge rose, Silvermoon already stood.

"If it means risking the wrath of the Convocation, of the Windrunners, the Sunrunners and the Pureglades, so be it." He mused to himself softly. It was then that he felt the currents of magic seize the inn.

The magic cast was extremely potent – of that he was certain. It weaved its way through, and seemed to stop the innkeepers, the two serving maids and the few other patrons in limbo, stopped them in the middle of mundane actions. A grey hue permeated the inn. Darajan did not doubt he would have been seized as well, but the magics carefully flowed around him without touching him.

The door to the inn opened. Two figure stepped in.

The first was seemed like a normal woman, except the she wore a grey mask and cloak, and her entire garments – from her gloves to her shirt, from her boots to her belt, all were in a certain shade of grey. Daggers which seemed menacing even from afar were strung on her belt on rows of two, and her walk showed a tranquil, dangerous grace and stealth which would make the envy of many a ranger.

The other was cloaked in black, but that was all Darajan could say. That she was a woman, the mage was almost certain, but little else could be gleaned. This female – for nothing else could be known about her – moved with less ominous grace than her companion, yet with an air of implacable power and arrogance.

Darajan felt a chill running up his spine. He had known that he would be met here by someone of what was slowly being called, in whispers, the Cult of Shades. But certainly not people of the highest leadership. And yet, here was the mysterious human known as the Grey Cloak – or the Grey Hand, depending on who you talked to – and the leader of the Cult itself, the being known only as Lady Shadowbound.

The power exuding from the black-garbed woman stopped Darajan in his tracks. He had met her before, but this… this was different. He had never seen her exert her true strength, and he found himself frightened, archmage that he was.

"Well, me, Lord Darajan." Lady Shadowbound mused, gliding into the chair opposite the small table with unabashed calm.

"Lady Shadowbound." He nodded, trying to calm his burst of nervousness. That the Grey Cloak came to stand behind Shadowbound, her deadly eyes boring into the elf's skull the only human sign of flesh visible, did not help.

"You are to be commended." Shadowbound mused after a moment. "To breach the Sunwell Grove undetected, after all the magical wards that the high mages have put in recently."

The Second War had seen the Horde tearing through Quel'Thalas, directly up to Silvermoon. Although the city had recovered quickly, and the damage to the forest erased through magic, the Convocation had vowed to protect their mainland better, leading to the construction of the Outer and Inner Elfgates, to increased fortification of Silvermoon and great magics added to the Sunwell Grove.

"I aided in reinforcing the magics of the Sunwell. It came easy for I to force its secrets open." He said with a smugness he did not feel.

"Excellent." The darkness inside of the hood nodded. "You have done well."

"All for my people." He reminded the woman. "Only for the glory of my people."

"Of course. The elves have been too often pushed aside in the last several centuries, especially since the beginning of the Age of Light. That must change." There was a pause "Everything must change, and we must pay a price for it. Now, Lord Silentgreen, do you have the vial?"

He hesitated, as if something in his head told him that what he was doing, in the long run, might just be something he would regret. He rejected that. It was too late for regrets. The elven leadership had failed, and it was up to him to put things to rights. He took the vial out and produced it in front of Lady Shadowbound. The light shone brightly, pure magic being felt emanating from it, and there was even a gasp from the otherwise silent Grey Cloak.

"The waters of the Sunwell. Some of the most potent magic on this continent." Darajan mused, respect overcoming his fear momentarily.

"And the way to the future." Shadowbound mused, stretching a gloved hand to take the vial. "And yours, in a sense."

Darajan handed over the vial, not listening to his more reluctant thoughts. This was right, he knew it. This was the way.

This was for Quel'Thalas. For his people.

And then, just as Shadowbound took the vial, the reluctant voice muttered something bothersome.

'Whatever did she mean, 'In a sense?''.

* * *

The Cult of Shades

From the shadows of the Second War, many problems have arisen, even within the victorious Alliance of Lordaeron. Although farming and crop yield are slowly approaching normalcy once again, the death toll wrought in the many battles, as well as the plagues and wants which followed, have left the four victorious races depleted and spent.

Wilderness has regained many corners, and dangers from monsters, bandits and raiders are a fact of life, with most of the armies either fighting on Dreanor or keeping watch over the internment camps.

Dalaran is no exception. Although apprentices are being trained, never has its power been so weakened since its early years. It is from the great, ancient magocracy that one truly insidious threat has arisen.

Not much is known, in Dalaran or elsewhere, about the Cult of Shades. Its goals, albeit dark, are unknown. What is known is that they have great magic at their command, and are led by the mysterious Lady Shadowbound, whom many suspect might be an ancient magi turned to darkness, or an orcish warlock having survived Doomhammer's purge. The truth of the matter is unknown.

All that is known is that, with the aid of several magics and fallen spellcasters, the Cult has become more than a minor problem for the realm of mages, as it has raised undeads, summoned daemons within the capital itself, all while the Grey Cloak – another mysterious figure – causes terror and death wherever she goes.


	19. Chapter Eighteen: Hope and Defiance

**Chapter Eighteen: Hope and Defiance**

_Early Spring 607, Hellfire Mountains, Dreanor_

Aerth Swiftblade loved life. He was loyal to his King, to Azeroth, and to the Alliance. And he would give his life without hesitation for his wife or any of his children. All these things were truth. But there was one place where Swiftblade found himself more alive than anywhere else, and that was the battlefield.

Its had been this way since the First War. Once past the fears of the first battles, he had found himself looking forward for the thrill of the struggle, of the challenge to the mind and the body. When he'd risen too far in rank to be risked directly on the battlefield, he'd found a way to channel his passion into ways to waylay, defeat, or destroy the enemy.

'What does that say about me?' he thought fleetingly. But, as he looked down the slopes which marked the boundary between Alliance and Horde lands on Dreanor, it dissipated, replaced by 'How should I best push them back?' as he saw the orcs mounting another assault.

The volcanic Mountains of Flame were a formidable bastion, with only one trail leading to the rest of Dreanor. With the seas being stormy, and the Horde Fleet in shambles, the only way for the Horde to send a large army into the Alliance-held Hellfire Peninsula was to got though the so-called Flaming Pass. Having forced the Orcs to reel back through the pass, Turalyon had quickly seen the use of it.

For the Mountains of Flames ended abruptly into a short plain, with only a small hill in the middle, forming a sort of bowl of steep hill. There were three small passes leading from those hills into the plains of the peninsula. Turalyon had thus ordered three stages of defense.

The first was in the pass itself. A small outpost would be manned, with explosives around the area it was in. These dwarven charges would be prepared and maintained, to force a partial obstruction of the pass, leading the attacking forces to stop and take time to work a passage through the debris.

The second stage was a thick wall of timbers and stone, quickly built and manned by archers. They would stall the enemy at the pass's entrance, and allow those on duty on the sole hill on the plains to sound the alarm to the third, and main, line of defence. These three hills had been heavily fortified, the passes nearly impassable, forcing the attackers to fight a literal uphill battle, which allowed their numerical advantage to be offset by a strong tactical advantage.

So far, it had worked beautifully. Archers , boulders, and the occasional sally had kept the twelve thousand Alliance troops with a slight upper hand over an Horde force at least twice that large. Swiftblade was amazed on how many warriors the Horde could feel. The orcs were a numerous race indeed. However, he'd noted that they no longer sent the large forces seen during the Second War. Perhaps, he reasoned, the orcs were running out of troops as well.

"General, Captain Sallers' infantry on our far left flank is having trouble with a rank of Ogres. They might be pushed back if this keeps up."

"Send Lieutenant Highkeel and his cavaliers to reinforce them. Have them break the Ogre charge, but have a message sent that any pursuit is forbidden at present." Aerth answered. Doing so, he looked at the main thrust of orc grunts coming up the slope.

As the left wing of the defending army, he couldn't allow the rest of the force to be outflanked. He then noticed behind the first line of orcs, where trolls were present, and seemingly ill at ease with their allies.

"The second line of the attack is unready, undisciplined. Have the archers and mages focus all attacks on the second rank. Stall them there, and let the first rank proceed towards us. Our infantry will stall them. Once they've reached us, send a full platoon of knights in to crush them against the pikes." He nodded, gritting his teeth. "If nothing else, they'll become either hesitant or stupid, both of which work for me."

"Aye, general!" The aides quickly went to the couriers with the instructions, and they sped with the new orders for the various officers.

Swiftblade barely watched them go. He remembered when he'd been a Captain himself, leading hundreds into stalling actions, staving off the flows. And as Commander, and even his first few battles as a General. He'd watched then. He'd fretted. Now, he felt he couldn't allow himself to fret. If it worked, well and good. If it didn't, he'd try something else.

It turned out rather well, considering. The arrows made the trolls wild, and this made certain the second rank descended into temporary chaos. The first rank held a bit longer than he thought it would, so he ordered a push, of all the knights and footmen, downward, forcing the failing first rank into the chaotic second, which descended into the third, and so on. Soon, the thrust failed entirely.

As it did, Aerth had imperative horns sound the retreat. He couldn't allow his men to chase the enemy down. Down the hill, the numerical advantage would ensure that the orcs would crush his people.

The man looked at the sky. The day was lengthening. This thrust would be the last for the day, he surmised.

"Have the men keep on the defensive, but prepare the guard duties and posts. This day is ending." He ordered his aides. As they acknowledged him, he continued to survey the battlefield. He saw that the chaos was receding, replaced by the eerily familiar sounds of the dying, and the stench of blood, burnt flesh, and death wafting from the slopes.

"Three days already." One aide sighed. It wasn't meant for anyone, but Swiftblade answered.

"We've had far worse." He then looked at the aide, and considered the young man's age. 'Maybe this one hasn't seen the weeks of unending battle, the sustained conflicts at the Land Bridges, the Siege of Ironforge, or Blackrock Spire's last stand. I'm really getting old.'

"They won't last long. Not this way. They have the numbers, but that means their supplies won't be sufficient soon. Three, four more days. If we can hold, they'll have no choice to retreat or starve."

"Do Orcs retreat?" One knight joked. There were grim chuckles at this. Even the general cracked a smile.

"The smart ones do. The bloodthirsty ones will let their forces degrade, and then, when they're almost dead from hunger, lead them in a charge upward. In the latter case, we'll easily wipe them out. But it'll be far more trouble."

Despite his words, Swiftblade stayed at his post until he saw that the orcs, ogres and trolls weren't moving in to attack anymore, before proceeding at a flat, steep part of the hill, where the Left Flank had pitched tents. He barely acknowledged the salutes this time, as he felt himself aching all over.

"That's where we are." He muttered. "This is the path humans are taking towards the future."

"General?" Said one of his aides.

He'd all but forgotten about them. He shook his head before all but ordering them out of his sight, and grabbing some dried venison. He then sat on a crate beside his tent, chewing his meat pensively as the strange sky of Dreanor deepened to reveal strangely-placed stars.

He wondered briefly if he should have told Turalyon about his son's arrival, then dismissed it. This was a battle situation, and the last thing the Expedition needed was to have a distracted High General. Things were complicated enough as they were without bringing family into it.

Family. He always thought about it, no matter the day or the time. Eira was always near him in his heart, and his children seemed part of him. Swiftblade would never have believed that he would go on to marry a magnificent, strong woman, and have build something so dear to his mind and heart.

"I wonder how they're doing, there in Sunshire." He mused, then grinned mildly. "Eira must be attending meeting at the House of Nobles, building back the last of the city. And the children must be getting into all sorts of trouble." He snorted, "Especially Vedran."

And then Aerth Swiftblade, who felt alive the most on the battlefield, heaved a sigh. Feeling alive and feeling whole wasn't quite the same thing, he found.

"I wish I could see how they're doing, really." He mused, as he kept on gazing at the strange constellations in the middle of a weary camp.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Dead Mines, Azeroth _

Eira scowled as Van Cleef sat accross from her. For the last several days, she'd been held in the dank, lantern-illuminated place. Her room was well-furnished and she was never molested in anyway. However, no matter how soft the methods, she understood captivity, and there was no way she would ever smile upon her jailor.

Van Cleef, for his part, seemed to be enjoying the whole situation. He sat with the air of someone in complete control of the situation – which, to her distress, she found he largely was. She had no guards here, no political or social power. All that shielded her was her name. Not Fregar, this time – her ancient House would only get her killed here – but Swiftblade.

'They hate nobles, but they seem to make Aerth one of the exceptions. Or maybe his military skills frightens them enough that they don't want him against them.' She reflected. 'Whatever the case, being married to him gives me a bit of pull.'

"I thought I might tell you what I intend with you, Lady Eira." Van Cleef mused. Her scowl increased, and his own smile widened. "Now, no need to be that way."

"I have been kidnapped, tied, taken somewhere against my while, and kept prisoner." she answered tersely, "I think I am quite entitled to being 'that way', sir Van Cleef."

"Ah, you do make a good argument. Very well. I'll dispense with the sympathy, then." He put his hands behind his head. "House Swiftblade, how I've learned of it."

"Formed during the Second War when General Aerth Swiftblade was ennobled by the Regent-Lord Lothar for his superb services to the Alliance. In the immediate aftermath of the same war, the newly-crowned King Varien Wrynn confirmed the noble title, increased it to Duke, and gave the ancestral lands of House Fregar and half of the fiefs belonging to the destroyed House Duraz."

Van Cleef leaned further backward. Eira watched for a chance to do something, but knew better than to try. She probably could not surprise the man. And even if she could, they'd capture her soon enough while she'd wander about.

"Fifteen years ago, House Swiftblade didn't exist. Now, it holds many lands, much wealth, and is perhaps the third or fourth most powerful voice in the House of Nobles." Van Cleef said, eyes gleaming. "You wondered why I don't seem to hate your husband like I do your filthy kind? Its simple: because he built his power with his own abilities. I can't hate someone who gains something owed him."

"Don't categorize my husband with your mentality." She retorted, "He never fought for his own image. He fought because he wanted Azeroth freed, because he believed in Lord Lothar and the Alliance of Lordaeron."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. No need to argue, it doesn't change the fact that your house is powerful in many ways."

"You do not want me for political power. You would be better off kidnapping Lord Fordragon, if that was the case."

Here, Van Cleef's face turned clearly nasty, his face pinched, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. She realized that talking of House Fodragon – an old family, which had always held power in Stormwind second only to House Wrynn itself – might not have been the best of stratagems.

"If Lord Fordragon was to come here," Van Cleef stated icily, "I'd take only his head, milady. The rest of his despicable body is of no interest to me!"

Eira recoiled for a moment, then drew herself up. She was afraid, but then she'd felt fear all the time since she'd realized she'd been kidnapped. But she preferred to die than show it to such a criminal like Van Cleef. She kept her face still with all of her will, refusing to flinch further, prohibiting trembling.

"You don't want political power from my House." She stated through stiff lips. He seemed to relax at that. 'Let us be cautious. His mind is not as stable as it appears to be.'

"You don't want political power. What is it then? Wealth? Surely there are better means than ransom."

"Not a bad idea there, actually." Van Cleef noted, his good mood returning at once, "Good, but I will pass on it. Come, Duchess. We've watched you. When we saw you coming here, we knew you were perfect. Please, search. What does House Swiftblade have access to, more than most in all of the Kingdom?"

Eira frowned. There was nothing she could see. House Swiftblade was powerful, but young. It had no deep bloodline, no ancient secrets or feuds. It had been a House forged upon the great military abilities and knowledge her husband possessed…

Her blood went cold, and she actually gasped, the sound escaping before she could control it. Van Cleef beamed at the sound, almost jumping from his chair. He leaned forward now, expectantly.

"You… you cannot be… serious." She half-pleaded, "Military… secrets."

He laughed lightly at that, and actually gave her a condescending pat on the head. She would have reacted, except that she was simply too stunned to care, much less move about.

"I knew you were a smart Lady!" Van Cleef exclaimed, this time jumping up in excitement. "Yes. Who cares, really, about tedious politics. And why go through the trouble of angering a great general for a bit of money? But military knowledge… Alliance experiments, engineering plans from Gnomerregan, smelting production in Ironforge, or magical items from Quel'Thalas. Your husband has access to many secrets that the Alliance'd really like to be kept secret."

"Then you waste your time, sir Van Cleef." She answered after a moment of gathering her thoughts. "You should know that my husband is far away now, fighting the Horde and keeping you and I safe."

"For which we're all grateful, I'm certain." The leader of the Defias Brotherhood nodded, "And I'd never dream to use such a fine soldier. As I said, I respect people who build their own lives with their own hands. You, on the other hand, are a Fregar, of an old House, who never had to work for her station. You, milady, I can use."

She didn't know how to react to that. She understood the words, but they just flabbergasted her. Did he mean that she, who didn't know more about military matters than Aerth had told her, would have to spy on the Alliance High Command?

"Insane. Your plan is insane. I know nothing of the military. Even if I accepted, which I never will, " she pointed out harshly "I wouldn't have the pull to gain the information, or the ability to know what is useful."

"You don't need to know." The unstable bandit grunted, smile slipping, ruthlessness under the gentle façade. "Your husband certainly has some good information in his study, and you can use your influence, and his name, to learn more."

"And I tell you again, I refuse to help you in any way." Eira replied. Van Cleef didn't seem angry with that. If anything, he seemed to become ever more joyful. A cold chill ran down her spine as he stood up.

Van Cleef opened the door, and whispered a few words to one outside. He then shifted his attention back to her.

"As I've said, we made plans once we knew you were coming with Lady Prestor. And we found someone, someone who was away from the safety of Castle Swiftblade. Someone, I suppose, who might have wanted to live his father's story and be a hero..." he then stopped as he saw something outside. "There you are. Come in."

Two Defias members came in, wearing the red scarf of their group. Behind them, struggling, was a young man with a dirty face and clothes which, while once fine, had known better days. It was a face Eira had known perhaps better than ever Aerth's for the past thirteen years. A younger Aerth Swiftblade, with more than a dash of Fregar blood thrown in.

"V-Vedran?!?" The young man's eyes widened at the same time.

"Mother?!?"

Van Cleef looked at the heir to House Swiftblade, than at the same House's mistress. He seemed to be a man who suddenly had had his wishes come true. He smirked down at Eira condescendingly.

"Now, Lady Eira… let's talk of House Swiftblade and its secrets."

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Blackrock Spire, Wildlands_

Grom Hellscream couldn't believe his eyes. Right before him, two Horde masses were clashing, their intent clear to all.

He recognized the banners of one side, a black peak on a field of deep red, the symbol of the formerly powerful Blackrock Clan, the very clan which had spearheaded the sack of Azeroth, but had also failed when faced with the humans' Alliance. It was once a great power. Now, with Doomhammer possibly captured, or dead, it was reduced to a shadow of its former greatness.

The other banner, the grey, howling face of a wolf on a pale brown field, the blademaster had seen only once in his life, but he recognized it: the banner of the Direfang Clan. A young, new clan, followers of the formerly famed Warlord of the Blackrock Clan, Argal Grimfrost. It was small and new, but had some long-blooded war veterans in its forces.

The clash between the two forces was taking place at the foot of the former fortress, which also seemed to look like a broken monolith. Orcs from the second war with the pinkskins said that much of the damage had been done during the enemy's last, fury-maddened onslaught, one which the Horde hadn't been able to repulse with its own strength for battle.

It had never been fully retaken for some reason. It was as if someone else had hold of it. Not that it matter in Hellscream's mind. All that he cared about was the fact that the remnants of the Horde's most powerful warriors were fighting, whittling away their numbers, decreasing the strength they should have hoarded to later use AGAINST the humans.

"Foolish of them!" he growled in anger.

Still, he could see which way the battle was going. The Blackrocks were fiercer, but the Direfangs were quicker and more organized. Morover, they actually used Wolfriders, where the Blackrocks had only two or three dozen Ogres at their side. You can't destroy an enemy you can't touch, it was something taught to all Blademasters. And Grimfrost's forces were constantly shifting the battleground, keeping the upper hand purely through expert movement.

"Look, brothers," he told those standing with him, those who were to make their way back to Azeroth with their artefact of power. "Look at this, and tell me what you see."

"I see two clans fighting. One has a clear advantage." One said.

"They both fight fiercely. But the ones with the brown banners use their fierceness better."

"That's right, brethren." He said, looking down at the battle with amazement. "This is Argal Grimfrost, an infuriating orc. This is the power of his art of warfare."

"Argal Grimfrost, the foolish traitor who's too cowardly to join…" He didn't get any further, as Hellscream backhanded the other orc with a glare.

"Never speak of a Orc Warrior that way again in my presence!" Hellscream growled menacingly. "I may call him a traitor, as a chieftain. But even I admire his battle abilities. I won't allow another who never held command of troops to ridicule such a fine battle lord."

He knew what they were thinking when they stared at him now. Why was he, who had raged against Grimfrost's refusal, changing his say about him? The truth was, he knew, that he wasn't changing anything. He was still angry, and still thought that Grimfrost had made a soft-minded decision.

However, he knew enough about command and battlefields to know a good warleader to a bad one. And Grimfrost, Hellscream had to admit, was in full command of that battlefield. The orc had been well-respected even when Hellscream had been an orcling, as a superb warrior and leader.

'I understand why Doomhammer trusted your skills, old one.' He thought. 'If we're to take revenge on the Humans one day, we'll need talents like yours. Can't you see that?!?'

Seeing the battle was starting to make his blood boil. He fought down the urge to unsheathe his weapon and join in the slaughter. Which side? The Direfangs? The Blackrocks? His own? It didn't matter! He needed to be out there now, to feel the blood enemies spilling out, to feel the life that this demonic gift gave them all!

He forced his will upon that need, tried to channel it, and finally, with a mighty roar, he turned, lifted his blade, and promptly struck at a nearby rock, which split in two. As his vision cleared, he saw that one of the grunts had taken his axe and was running towards the battle, laughing.

"Wait! Fool! No!" he called, but the other Orc was beyond his reach in both words and actions. He then noticed the others, and saw that several were looking towards the battle with gleeful expressions. He stepped towards them and planted his feet.

"You're orcish warriors! Am I am your Chieftain! And I say, you stay here, or you die!" he shouted, and readied his blade to defend himself if need be. His anger, however, seemed to shake the bloodlust off a bit, and their eyes stopped burning with that strange glow.

"Krommash is…" one said, gesturing towards the battlefield.

"Krommash is dead. There's nothing we can do. There's hundreds of warriors battling to the death. He'll never even be noticed." He muttered. Abandoning a fool meant nothing to him. He shook his head. 'It's a warrior wasted. They're ALL warriors wasted! Fools!' he thought savagely.

"Let's get out of here. This doesn't concern us. Our mission is more important." He told them. He had a hard time saying the words, but he managed anyway.

"Chieftain… we HAVE been noticed!"

Hellscream stopped as he was motioning the others, and looked towards the battlefield. What he saw made him want to pull his hair out in a pure fit of frustration: Wolfriders were coming. Six of them. And they were five. On foot.

The others looked at him. He wondered what they were expecting. Did they think he was going to tell them to flee? Or did they think they were going to fight to the death here, perhaps taking their new enemies with them? The chieftain would have much preferred the latter option, if it wasn't for his mission. The future of the Horde itself was at stake, and he couldn't let something that enormous go down in a petty fight.

Yet, fleeing was too abhorrent to even contemplate at the moment.

"Stand your ground." He said, finally. "Don't attack them, but don't flee. Show them the pride of the Warsong Clan."

The riders came forward, and then slowed as they approached. Hellscream was surprised at that. The lead warrior had gestured, but Horde warriors in full charge wouldn't obey orders easily. Then he saw the elder face of the leading orc, and he understood why they had done that.

Argal Grimfrost, tusks yellowed, a mane of grey hair on a wrinkled face, looked down at Hellscream and almost seemed to grin. The younger warrior hated to be gauged down by anyone, but he wasn't suicidal, and he merely stood his ground.

"Grom Hellscream. Throm-Ka, chieftain." The old orc said.

"Throm-Ka, Warlord." Hellscream answered. He couldn't bring himself to designate the other orc as a chieftain, but he could give him a title he had already fully earned. The orcs beside the old orc bristled, but Grimfrost seemed to take it in stride.

"You come to this battle, Hellscream of the Warsong Clan?" Grimfrost asked.

"To watch. I won't fight. Not today." He answered, and this seemed to surprise the old orc somewhat. He supposed that his words didn't go with his reputation and usual deeds.

"Then you've watched. Watched how the Horde you serve fights with anger, without strategy. That's why our numbers weren't enough against the Alliance. That's why our people must change!" Grimfrost growled, tightening his fist, pumping it slightly, as though hitting something upon each word.

"I'll never believe that! Our power makes us powerful! Makes us…" Hellscream growled, but Grimfrost only shook his head.

"We're done, here. Loktar-Ogar, Grom Hellscream. May your eyes open one day." The orc said.

Hellscream nodded, but couldn't find himself the ability to answer. It was a shameful act, but he simply couldn't. Once again, the elder orc had beaten him on the battlefield of words. It rankled.

Worst of all, deep in Hellscream's heart, was that there was this slightly, twisted little doubt, this lingering question: _Is he right_?

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Deathwing's Isle, Dreanor_

The great black dragon roared in fury and pain, as it was struck by Kurdran's hammer. Already, great gouges showed in its plated body, wounds given by Sky'Ree's furious attacks, and Khadgar's spells.

Alleria let loose of another arrow, expertly gauging the distance and striking true, worsening the wounds, even as her comrades did their best to aid her efforts. The same was true of the remaining mages and gryphon riders in the group. The dragon had come alone, probably out of pride, and was paying for it.

"Almost have it…" Alleria grunted, and Khadgar nodded. The battle was going their way, there was no doubt of that. The dragon was clearly unable to match Sky'Ree's sheer power alone, and the added help the gryphon had only made what would have been a relatively easy battle into a breeze.

It didn't make the archmage feel at ease. It rather had him relatively on edge.

The dragon trashed, turned and gave out one last gout of flames towards the griphons, which deftly dove out of the way. At that moment, more than half-a-dozen hammers streaked towards the gargantuan reptile, and struck at vulnerable parts. Once again, the dragon roared, in fear.

And then Sky'Ree was upon it again and, dodging a desperate swipe, its great claws dug upon the dragon's throat, and ripped it out. The effect was instantaneous, as the beast began to lose its strength at once, its ability to fly failing. It fell.

The elves and mages were far from the impact point, yet they all felt it. Dragons, even small ones, were enormous beasts. Only when it didn't stir did they relax a bit, the elves seeing to their wounds and stocks of arrows, and the mages going to their meditation to regain some magical power. The griphons simply landed to rest up.

"What do you think?" Alleria mused, wiping sweat from her brow. She was starting to strain, if only a little. Her people were much worse than she was, of course.

"You're the ranger, my dear." He answered, sighing. "What does the situation tell your military eyes?"

Before her disgrace, Alleria had been the greatest Elven Ranger in the elven realm of Quel'Thalas. Even now, most of the elven warriors treated her in awe, something which the mage found she fully deserved. Few could fight and think as well as that particular elven female did. SO he saw her ponder, and waited for her opinion.

"We are being gauged. That is all there can be to this situation. We have had it too easy, I say." She mused. "Four attacks, four victories… with light losses each time."

"Draining us."

"Exactly." She nodded. "We lost two griphons, one rider, two of your brethren, and four of my kinsmen. Deathwing is… softening us."

Khadgar couldn't help but agree with the assessment. Although not a warrior, or a tactician, his magical senses were afire. It told him that someone of great magical power was scrying on them, and making no attempt at hiding. He knew it had to be Deathwing. The only being he could feel who could equal Khadgar's strength, Ner'Zul, was usually less violent in his ways, orc though he was.

"You're likely right, Alleria." He mused, "But we've no choice but to continue forward. If we can slay Deathwing… well, if we could weaken him enough to force him to retreat…"

"We'll be giving Turalyon a greater chance at success." Alleria mused. The mage noticed that she stressed the Paladin's name ever so slightly, more than she should normally.

The archmage had sometimes wondered at the paladin and the ranger. Of different races, philosophies and general habits, they seemed like people fit NOT to be together. 'And yet… first there was Garona for me, then my Lady Delado… women I seem not to fit.' He reminded himself. He had no right, nor the intent, to question what his two comrades felt.

Still, when Alleria talked of Turalyon with something very similar to human longing, he could not help but stop and take notice.

She saw the look, and her eyes glinted warningly. The scathing words, however, never came. She seemed like someone who was caught and, despite her being saying she shouldn't, despite wanting to hide it, also not being able to deny him.

"I love him, mage." She said with all the elven pride he'd ever seen. "I love this… stubborn, rule-abiding, Light-fanatic human. Is that wrong?"

Despite the surprise at the sudden comment – brought, perhaps, by the clear danger of their situation – he didn't hesitate in shaking his head.

"Love is often strange, but I've never found it to ever be wrong, in my experiences." He mused. "But, perhaps your tale about you and Turalyon could wait a bit? The danger hasn't passed yet."

She nodded, and it was clear that the subject was closed to her, for now at least. The moment was gone. The elven ranger was back.

"We should prepare ourselves." She mused, cupping her hands and shouting at the top of her lungs. "Kurdran! What do you see?!"

There was a moment of relative silence, during which there was only the sounds of the ad hoc camp carrying, reminding them all of how dead the place was. And then the dwarven voice rumbled down from the heights, instantly recognizable.

"Nothin', lass! We showed those beasties awright!" the dwarf said, "Till the next one, at least!"

"We are getting bled dry! Come down and we will plan for Deathwing's demise!" she answered, coughing afterwards. Elves, with their melodious voices, were simply not meant for shouting too long, and Alleria was no exception.

The Dwarf soon descended, Sky'ree showing wounds on its sides caused by numerous clashes with dragons. Kurdran himself looked fine, if exhausted and rather cranky about the entire situation. Khadgar motioned them to a secluded corner, where the three leaders began to confer.

"We will be wiped out before we even reach Deathwing, at this rate." Alleria muttered, frowning.

"Pains me to admit it, but the lass is right here." the muscular dwarf agreed reluctantly. "Just a bit more fight – two or three big ones – and the griphon'll be too weak to fight."

Khadgar closed his eyes. His mission was a retaliatory one, intent on showing the Fallen Aspect that the Alliance should be left well enough alone. Turalyon had been very reluctant to commit them, or any other forces, only to make a point. The Horde, the High General had said, was the primary threat, not the dragon.

Khadgar, patiently, stubbornly, had convinced him to try it. And now, seeing the results, he wondered if he hadn't made a terrible mistake. But to wonder too long was a weakness, a hesitation. It forced the archmage to consider his options.

Then the mage saw it. He saw a possible way out.

"We'll combat the next wave as he wishes." He mused.

"That's just suicide, lad!" Kurdran growled. "You know that, Light!"

"I do." The powerful spellcaster mused. "But I also have a way which may help us. And that resides in the fact that the dragon is often scrying us."

The dwarf and the elf tensed at that, grinding their teeth as they too in the news. Khadgar, however, put a calming hand up to stall them from aggressive moves. They looked at him, more perplexed than irritated.

"Its not all that bad, my friends. Its… actually a very good thing, I muse say."

"And why is that, mage?" Alleria asked, her eyes shadowed. The man smiled.

"Because, as strong as he is, Deathwing isn't above making mistakes. And, Light be praised, he made a very great one in this place! Just wait and see."

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Near the Dead Mines, Azeroth_

There were things that Gelmar Thornfeet would rather do. They all involved not being anywhere near the Dead Mines.

The place had a rather grim connotation to the Shaman. It represented what had been wrong with his people, with the entire Horde, for so very long. The place had been infested long ago, during what the humans and, increasingly, the orcs born on this world, called the First War.

During the early days of the conflict, the Kingdom of Azeroth and the Horde had been locked in a bitter stalemate. Blackhand, the Warchief of the time, had decided that some chaos might tip the scales in his people's favour, and had chosen old, abandoned mines near the then-prosperous city of Moonbrooke.

There, he had sent an entire tribe of Ogres, to carry raids upon the rich breadbasket of the kingdom. With most of the human armies gone to the front, Moonbrooke had been unable to field much of a defence for the countryside, and its remaining swords were largely kept within the city walls.

It had taken a raid during which Anduin Lothar – the single man because of whom the Alliance of Lordaeron truly became a reality – had been captured. A force of elite human troops had stormed the mines, killing all the Ogres and narrowly saving Lothar. The slaughter had been so complete, so ruthless, that the mines were sealed, and were never used by either the humans or the orcs for many years.

Until now, that was.

"When I first came here, Drek'Thar," the aging shaman mused, "The human city still stood fast. The fields had been abandoned and left fallow, but the battle for Moonbrooke hadn't begun."

"I never came here." his former apprentice mused, "I only heard of the victory around here. In those days, it made me happy."

"And now, my friend?"

It took a moment for the other orc to answer. When it came, it came slowly, steadily. "Now? Now, I think it's simply another sin upon our people's own foolish bloodlust. The younger orcs, don't understand why the humans hate us so completely. The sad truth is… we didn't leave them any choice BUT to hate us."

Thornfeet nodded. Another sin. But those sins could be washed away one day, although it'd take a long time. His current plan meant to speed things up, however slightly. That it involved the Dead Mines and the Ogres again, however, brought a waft of bitter irony to the orc.

"Where are those beasts, anyway?" Drek'Thar muttered. He had never hidden his distaste for the plan. Thornfeet knew that the other orc followed it only because of the respect he held for the reluctantly-titled Patriarch.

"Calm, my friend. These beasts, as you call them, as more friends than foes to us right now." The elder told the orc he had taught for many years. "We will need their aid soon enough. I have seen something very… peculiar. As did you."

"You mean the human woman we saw being transported into the mines?"

Thornfeet nodded. He had seen the cart transporting the woman enter, hidden as he was by spiritual aid. He had seen that the woman, though bound, betrayed very little fear, seemed quite collected. However, he had only very recently understood why her face bothered him. Now he knew.

"Eira Fregar Swiftblade. I think that's her name, from what our people amongst the Direfangs have said. The wife of Aerth Swiftblade, one of the most powerful generals in the Alliance, and certainly THE greatest in the Kingdom of Azeroth." He mused with a grin. It caused Drek'Thar to grunt.

"I know of the human. A strong war leader. Wealthy and influential now, I'm told." Drek'Thar shrugged, "Why the interest in his mate, anyway?"

"That's simple enough, Drek'Thar." He mused matter-of-factly. "I fully intend to save the noblewoman from these thugs.

The other orc stared at him, as if he was seeing something which he shouldn't be seeing. Drek'Thar's mouth worked for many moments, opening and closing. His dismay was so evident that Thornfeet actually chuckled before returning his attention back to the peaceful day surrounding him.

"You can call me insane." He mused with a tusky grin and an amused gleam in his eyes. "I've certainly been called worse."

"I wouldn't dare. You're not someone who'd plunge into insanity." Drek'Thar mused after a long moment, sighing. "Still, I can't help to wonder about the idea. Saving a human…"

"We shamans make no distinction on race." Thornfeet reminded his former pupil calmly, "If we do, we're no better than the old Horde was under Blackhand."

"No, Patriarch. I agree. If it was about saving someone from bandits on the road, I'd help save the human. But why risk something for THIS woman? General Swiftblade would never help us. He's a knight, and they're known to stick to their oaths."

"Ah, but his wife is not a knight. And she holds influence as great as any oath in his heart, I'm certain."

His old friend shrugged, chuckling a moment, before raising his hands. The argument, small as it was, was over. Although he felt that Drek'Thar still had doubts, the orc was fully prepared to follow on his Patriarch's idea.

The Ogres arrived, seven of them. Once more, Thornfeet was taken aback by their muscular girth. During the war against the Draenei, the hulking beasts had been decisive, countering magical might with pure power. Used very little during the First War, much of their surviving population had fought in the Second.

This hadn't helped their race much. The human and elven knights, although not as powerful, had been more cunning and generally faster, and the death toll for the Ogres had been terrible, especially during the battles at Blackrock Spire, where the bulk of the Ogre forces had fought the combined rage of the Alliance race, and been cut to ribbons by human, elven and dwarven steel.

All of this, Thornfeet had learned through the spirits and careful probing of the land. It left him with a certain pity for the remaining Ogre clans, something most of the orcish people – and not a few of his Shaman brethren – didn't understand.

They didn't have any place left. The orcs shunned them, the trolls didn't want to have anything to do with them, as they did anyone not of their race, or even tribe. And the races which made up the Alliance would probably never see them as anything else but the beasts which had terrified their people for many years. In many ways, they were adrift.

The largest orc, their leader, approached heavily, until they stood close. Although the larger being could have all but crushed him physically, his demeanour was peaceful. Thornfeet had demonstrated the powers that the spirits granted him, and orcs respected tangible power.

"Hello, my friend."

"Shaman boss. We found secret entrance!" The ogre exclaimed.

"I expected you'd do just that. And do you think it's guarded?" he asked, nodding.

"No ugly human around there!"

Thornfeet nodded, and gave his old friend a grin, which returned only a puzzled frown. He then motioned for him to follow.

"Let's go."

"Where?" he asked.

"Where the human Lothar was once taken by the ogres, long ago."

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Deathwing's Lair, Dreanor_

Deathwing watched the humans, elves and dwarves struggling against his people. It amused him that the mortals of his world thought themselves capable of opposing him, the greatest of all of the Aspects.

Although it was from the eyes of a different being, the former Aspect of the Earth remembered his past. Through it, he remembered many things which had long been forgotten.

He remembered the Titans, mighty being which had powers surpassing even the combined powers of the Aspects, powers overshadowed only by the passive entity which the Night Elves have since called Elune. He had been shaped and birthed by the Titans, although he found their work flawed.

He remembered the great Troll empires, the elven realm when the elves were but one species. He had witnessed the Burning Legion's invasion, had survived the Sundering, and had quietly watched as the elven people split into High and Night Elves. He had seen the rather stagnant, nomadic lifestyle of what was still called Kalimdor, and had been drawn to the lands far from Night Elf influence.

There, the High Elves, the Dwarves and the Humans had clashed against the Trolls and each other. Deathwing had always liked the humans – so weak and yet, so persistent. That persistence had made the humans strong in the east, allowing their realms to dominate the continent, overshadowing every other culture and race, until the Horde came and the Alliance was formed.

Deathwing had seen it all. And he laughed that the mortal races might even consider trying to kill him.

Even now, he had connections everywhere. His daughter, in her human guise, had spent years in Azeroth, becoming one of the most powerful nobles in Stormwind, while his other agents plotted in Lordaeron. 'The Alliance,' he snorted, 'as powerful as it is, it is no match for the might of the dragons. Once I use Alexstraza's brood and my own, combined with the human nations under our claws, we will sweep the world to our control.'

The great dragon chuckled, the roaring of hammers crashing against the walls of his cave. Let Ner'Zul plot like the fool Orc he was – his people were a means to an end, nothing more.

The gargantuan reptile then noticed something from his scrying. At first, he didn't know exactly what it was, and decided to probe the battle rather than simply watching it. To his great surprise, he felt only his kin within the area. In disbelief, he looked carefully, but couldn't find the minute traces of magical presence which even the insignificant human life-forces gave off.

There was nobody there. There seemingly never had been an attack from the Alliance there.

In anger, Deathwing began to feel around his spell's weave, and discovered something which startled him and infuriated him in equal portions. He discovered a spell underneath his own, a subtle piece of work designed to make him see what was not there. A simple spell it was, but to escape his notice…

"**Khadgar…**" he hissed in the depths of his cave. "**He is the only one…**"

He had miscalculated. The spell was subtle, but also meant something else: they had traced him to his abode. They would be coming very soon, if there was any indication of their small cunning. They would seek him out, they would take the chance.

Rage blinded the great Aspect for a moment. 'All of these millennia of life, all of these ploys for the last several hundred years, only to be fooled by a CHILD of mere decades!' he thought savagely. 'I should have considered Khadgar! He was the thrice-cursed Medhiv's apprentice, and he's bound to have learned some Tirisfal ways!'

Then he calmed himself. The human and his forces were on their way, and his dragons were scattered about the island, none of them near enough. He could recall them, order their aid, but he did not. His people respected strength, and asking for aid was foreign to Deathwing and all of the Black Dragons.

And there was a second reason. A more personal one. It was that the dragon refused to be aided during the battle. He didn't fear the humans, the elves and the dwarves. Let them come to him, if it came to that. He would never hide. He would kill them all.

Thus he waited, and his scent quickly felt them coming. They were frightened, he could smell, but their victories had emboldened them. Fools. Could they not see that the ones they had fought so hard to vanquish were naught but whelps? He would show them the error of their ways.

He roared, then spread his wings and took flight, leaving through one of his lair's openings. Two griphons and their riders were there, waiting. They were surprised by his presence, and he tore them apart with bloody swipes before they could do anything. He then landed on a peak overlooking the place where the Alliance had gathered their forces.

They were all here. The Human wizards, in meditation. The Elves, nocking their bows. The Dwarves and their griphons, circling him in the sky. He looked at it all and smirked, a carnal showing of teeth, each as long as a human.

"**Good day, mortals.**" He mused with all the paternal condescension he could muster. He saw several cringing form the boom of his voice alone. 'Only from my voice. How weak and pathetic they are.'

"**Have you come seeking death, little ones? That is all you may find here.**"he mused. He was surprised when a voice, speaking in the elven tongue, answered. Boldly, like only an High Elf could.

"We come seeking you head, fallen one!" said the voice. It came from amongst the elven archers. "You have been a blight upon us for far too long!"

"**Such short-sightedness. Mortals never change.**" He stated, amused at the self-righteousness so-called 'heroes' always showed. "**I see you High Elf, and remember when your kind first came on the shores of what you now call Quel'Thalas, boldly founding your nation upon remnants of Troll lands. I remember events you do not know even in myth. Do not speak of blights.**"

"Enough yappin'!" The dwarf with the more ornate hammer muttered angrily. "Lets make an end to it!"

"**An end to it?**" Deathwing grinned as much as any dragon could. Them, lifting his massive paw, he recited arcane words few mortals could ever hope to understand. Purplish energy gathered, called from the ethers which linked all worlds, then gushing forth towards his enemy. "**Yes. Let us do so.**"

The energy sped forward, raking death unleashed, but faltered suddenly. Instead of striking outward, it seemed to be pulled towards the bright light emanating from the mage's staff. It pulled towards the humans, stopped. With a word of arcane no human should know, the human shot the energy back at Deathwing.

It took an effort to dispel it. Not a large one, but an effort. Deathwing seethed. Khadgar had indeed learned many spells from his old master. And the magic that the Guardians would wield were at least equal to his own.

There was an advantage to it, however. No matter how great the powers he commanded, Khadgar's body was not one of a Guardian of Tirisfal's. It was fully mortal. It was limited. Even now, the human's will seemed to vacillate. An impressive display. He fully understood why Khadgar was feared by the Horde. Even Gul'Dan wouldn't have taken the man lightly.

"**Impressive. But I am Deathwing. I have lived through the eons. You will not defeat me.**" He mused, and he took flight, followed by the griphons. They swarmed around him, and several blows fell on him from the dwarven hammers.

"And I told ya, beastie…" The dwarven leader muttered. "That its time to stop yappin'!"

And as Deathwing surged upward, he unleashed the powers he had kept back for millennia, even as his enemies attacked with arrows, hammers, claws and magic. It was the sort of battle he hadn't fought in a very long time, the only challenge since the great war with the Legion.

He was planning to fully enjoy destroying the mortal's foolhardy hopes.

* * *

**The Alliance Navy**

Prior to the Second War, the naval forces of the Seven Human Kingdoms were combined to form the Alliance Naval Forces, also known as the Alliance Navy or the Alliance Fleet. Under the command of Grand Admiral Proudmoore, whose fleet was the largest and most experienced of the human realms', it proceeded to fight the Horde Fleet throughout the War, eventually being joined by the Elven Fleet and having the Gnomes build many dozens of submarines.

Eventually, the Alliance Fleet, larger and far more experienced, crushed much of the Horde Fleet at Crestfall, and aided to end the Second War. As the years have passed, the Fleet has begun to lose its strength: Quel'Thalas and the humans of Gilneas and Stromgarde, although still committed to the Dreanor Expedition, have taken their own naval forces and become independent. Even so, the combined forces of Kul Tiras, Lordearon, Azeroth and Dalaran, as well as the steadfast aid from Gnomerregan, has ensured that the Alliance Fleet, though weakened, remains the most powerful naval force in the Known World.

The current Fleet Roster is thus:

1st Fleet (Kul Tiras): 18 Battleships, 28 human Destroyers, 16 transports, 12 Gnomish submarines, 20 support ships.

2nd Fleet (Lordaeron): 14 Battleships, 27 human Destroyers, 15 transports, 10 Gnomish submarines, 18 support ships.

3rd Fleet (Kul Tiras): 12 Battleships, 24 human Destroyers, 14 Transports, 10 Gnomish submarines, 15 support ships.

4th Fleet (Azeroth): 10 Battleships, 21 human Destroyers, 12 Transports, 14 Gnomish submarines, 26 support ships.

5th Fleet (Dalaran): 6 Battleships, 10 human Destroyers, 10 transports, 10 Gnomish submarines, 14 support ships.

6th Fleet (Alliance Expedition): 12 Battleships, 10 human Destroyers, 12 elven Destroyers, 12 Gnomish submarines, 30 support ships.


	20. Chapter Nineteen: Debts and Dragons

**Chapter Nineteen: Debts and Dragons**

_Early Spring 607, Whitefort, Lordaeron_

From his vantage point, Orgrimm Doomhammer, Warchief of the Horde, saw some of the soaring towers and gleaming parapets that made up a part of Lordaeron's capital city. Any damage done by the horde's weaponry had been diligently purged and repaired, and one might never guess that the human city had almost fallen.

This was where the Horde had almost triumphed over the Alliance. Lordearon had been the strongest nation at the time, with other powers such as Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas already wounded, some others, as Gilneas, unwilling to commit, and one nation, Alterac, having joined the Horde in all but name.

Had the city fallen, the Alliance would have been dealt a crippling, probably fatal, blow. Terenas, Lothar, and several of the best human commanders had been defending the city. Had it fallen, the Alliance leadership would have been beheaded. Lordaeron would have been dismembered, and only Kul Tiras, the remnants of Azeroth and Dalaran would have remained defiant.

Yes, Doomhammer knew it: he had been at the very threshold of utter victory. Despite his drive, he never had been able to fully appreciate what he had been about to achieve. However, that hadn't stopped his rage when Gul'Dan had betrayed him, taking half of the invasion force, forcing the loyalists into giving chase. That mad adventure had destroyed nearly two-thirds of the Horde's army.

And then Lothar had, as Doomhammer had feared, rallied all that he could of the human, elven and dwarven armies, and pushed at the frontlines. Kul Tiras soon defeated most of the Horde Fleet at Crestfall, and Dreanor's leaders stopped sending reinforcements, deeming the invasion a lost cause.

The Warchief had done his best afterwards, but the humans and their allies had a large manpower pool to draw from, while the Horde only had peons, often unsuited for combat. The caste system had worked against them, as Durotan had warned it would. The human armies grew ever stronger, eventually outnumbering the orc armies.

Then, Lothar, his old enemy, had mustered nearly all of his forces and laid siege to Blackrock Spire itself. Attrition had clearly shown that the Alliance would eventually prevail, forcing the Warchief to do something he really wished he had never done: he had challenged Lothar to combat, winning after a long, damaging battle. The human had been the greatest opponent that Doomhammer had ever killed, but an icon to the humans. He had hoped to see the Alliance hesitate.

Instead, the humans had acted with a fury which defied reason. It was as if the entire species had been infused by bloodlust, one even more potent than the one affecting the orcish people. They had thrown themselves forward, unrelenting, not caring of the cost. Thousands and thousands had died, but the defences had been shattered.

When the end had been clear, when the humans, led by their knights and paladins, had been swarming through the gates with their allies, Doomhammer had called for a general retreat. He had barely had enough time to see his friends' elite troops fleeing the battlefield before his war room was overrun.

And then, with dozens of knights storming in, Doomhammer had been made prisoner. The war, he knew, had been lost.

Even years later, it was burning his soul.

Although captured, and imprisoned, he'd been cunning enough to learn what had happened after wards: the defeat at the Dark Portal, the death of most of his warriors, and the fact that most of his people were now living in large, fortified camps, slowly succumbing a to a certain lethargy.

For his part, the Warchief had been brought to Lordaeron, where their King, Terenas Menethil, had decided to keep him as an 'honoured prisoner'. He had been furnished with a room, carefully set with a fortified, iron door and a window which, while open, was set with a magical forcefield. They had also set elite guards to watch him at all times.

In the beginning, at least. But Doomhammer had managed to carry a hidden agenda about his people for several years. He had pushed for victory over the humans and their allies because it would have allowed his people to conquer a new planet for themselves. A new place. A new start. He had shared as much with Argal Grimfrost, one of the few in the Horde he had regarded as a friend and confidant.

That very orc, he knew, had taken a large part of his army and what people he could, and left the battlefield, depriving the Horde of some of its most elite troops. At the time, Doomhammer had been shocked, driven half-mad with rage at what he saw as his friend's betrayal.

"Who betrayed who?" he asked as he looked down from the window. It was set near the castle's outer wall, and from there he saw a moat, and then the streets of the capital city, bustling with human life. A city saved only because an orc had betrayed another orc. The Horde had been good at that, better than even the humans, at betraying.

His anger at Grimfrost had, quickly enough, given way to dull regret. His friend had never liked the idea of them killing all the humans. He, so much like Durotan had, talked of finding a way to make peace and find a place they could make their own. "Blood and rage can't help our people find salvation." He had said. And he, Doomhammer, had called him short-sighted.

For Doomhammer knew. He knew that, as he waged the war, he had begun to see things much like his despicable predecessor, Blackhand, had seen the world. He had wanted glory and victory. He had been blind to the overextension of his own forces, at Lothar's stout resistance and, mostly, had chosen to ignore Gul'Dan. All fatal missteps.

Now, he had learned, the Horde on Dreanor had begun acting, striking at different places in Alliance territory. He had learned, through careful conversation, that the leaders of the Alliance had sent the so-called Alliance Expedition, an army made up of all of the states in the coalition. He had also learned, through the same channels and his own wits, that this would probably be the last action the Alliance of Lordaeron might take as a truly unified body.

"Ner'Zul stopped caring about our people here long ago." He mused to himself. "I have a feeling that he'll fail in some way. My people's salvation won't come from Dreanor."

He'd had dreams, of late. Dreams of an orc wearing his armour, wielding his Doomhammer. A warchief, but a wise and benevolent one. Not tainted, but hardened by life. Someone, he had felt, might lead his people to the dream a few had shared, and which Doomhammer had forgotten for a time: a new, peaceful home.

He didn't know any details. However, the fact that the youth wore his weapons – which Doomhammer had secreted away before his capture, in a vault no one but himself knew of – meant that the imprisoned warrior still had a part to play in future events.

This suited Doomhammer fine. Years of patience had born fruit. The humans, who had been so intent on keeping an eye on him, had grown accustomed to his presence, but also used to his calm and subdued politeness. Thy thought, he knew, that they had finally tamed the once-mighty Orgrimm Doomhammer. It was, for them, the definite proof that the human-led Alliance had truly shown itself superior to the orc-led Horde.

'Really, humans have such an inflated view of themselves.' He thought with scorn. Although he respected several of the human leaders and commanders for their mind and prowess, he found the human race to be rather weak and dull in general. Moreover, he saw that this very pride was breaking the Alliance apart.

If the Alliance stood as one, Doomhammer knew that the orcs in this new world stood no chance. However, the human nations were becoming paranoid, distrustful. The stubborn, martial people of Stromgarde and the aloof people of Gilneas, he'd learned, were close to leaving. The elves had already all but left. The people of Azeroth were too busy rebuilding. The Alliance was weakened.

Carefully, Doomhammer removed a stone he had carefully unfastened from the wall, just under his window. Hearing no noise from outside – his guards were probably busy playing dice or cards to alleviate their boredom, and were certainly not interested in him – he set it on the floor, and carefully put his hand through the hole he had created.

As he had half-expected, the magical field didn't touch that point. It had been designed only to cover the window. It hadn't been designed to expand beyond it. Sloppy work, he thought. 'Or, rather, overconfident work. Who am I, after all? Just one orc, no matter how powerful.'

He knew that his people might be seriously weakened. But he had heart. Grimfrost was too cunning to have been caught, which meant that his people flourished there. Other parts of the Horde held points in hidden valleys, or in strongholds throughout the southern half of the Continent. The humans may have won, but the battle wasn't over yet.

'Terenas, old fool.' He thought with a smile, 'Thank you for the years I spent as your prisoner. They were very informative. A learning experience to see you ugly pinkskins up close.'

He put the rock back exactly where it belonged. Once again, he felt the magical force held him from the window. It seemed the humans didn't think he'd figure something so simple. Or, maybe… but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he could escape. And return to the Horde.

And, once free, he'd seek Grimfrost out. Once he had forgiven his old friend, and had his warriors, then the Horde would resurface and look for the one who would one day succeed him to his armour, his weapon, and his title!

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Deathwing's Lair, Dreanor_

Eldritch energies lashed out from the dragon, even as his fiery breath roared around the small group. Another elf screamed as he ignited, flailing away at the flames, before falling into a flaming heap. All around the expansive cave, the battle raged on between the ancient Aspect and the mortal who had dared to challenge it.

Khadgar called upon his magic to shield them from the flames, at the same time trying to deflect as much as the magic as possible. Already, only eight of the small expedition still stood and fought, including himself, Alleria, Kurdran, and Sky'Ree. All others were dead.

Their deaths hadn't been in vain, however. Their concentrated strikes, the battering of dozens of storm hammers, the multitude of expert arrows and attack spells, had taken its toll. Deathwing was slowed, wounded. For the first time in perhaps millennia, the maddened, ancient dragon was on the verge of defeat.

That realization, however, had come upon Deathwing, and the response had been terrible to behold. Even Medivh, his master, hadn't shown this potential for destruction, this reckless bloodlust and need for violence.

"Kurdran! Buy me time!" He shouted. The dwarf only roared along with his gryphon, the duo circling around the enemy. Great claws had raked them, spells had hit them, and yet the two continued to lay into their enemy. They were a threat that the Aspect couldn't ignore. That gave the mage a needed reprieve. "Alleria."

At once, the elf arrived, crouching beside him, the both of them partially hidden by a rock. Around them, the titanic duel raged. The gryphon rider couldn't hope to contain the dragon for long. But he trusted the warrior to make do.

Alleria was burned, bruised, her magnificent appearance marred by weariness and battle. Yet, her eyes were as defiant as ever. Her soul and her dedication to the battle were whole. That was enough for Khadgar. He grasped a fallen arrow, and began muttering arcane words. It was a dangerous business, he knew even as he started to ram his energies into the weapon.

But they had nothing else. Both sides were playing their last cards. Although they'd weathered the onslaught, the dint still went against the expedition. He couldn't allow it. They had to put Deathwing out of action, if not kill the being outright.

'Kill him?' he scoffed to himself, 'Our powers are too small next to his. Killing him is out of the question. I think it would take many archmages working in concert to have a chance, and even then…'

"Alleria, take this arrow." He said as he completed the ritual. "I've put in nearly all that remains of my power in it. Hit him. Hit him where it hurts. And, by the Light, don't miss!"

She took the arrow, then nodded. If anyone could make the shot, it was Alleria. She was said to be the finest archer in the entire Alliance, and Khadgar was willing to believe it. 'The Windrunners… such a powerful bloodline.'

There was a cry of pain and both Kurdran and Sky'Ree fell with a resounding noise which echoed throughout the cavern. Both landed in different places, and both tried to move as the powerful dragon approached them. The archmage quickly made his way to them, and struck the dragon with a lightning bolt, wincing at the strain.

"**Fool human… wasteful by-product of the land.**" The Aspect intoned with a sneer. "**You really believed you could defeat me, the greatest of all the Aspects, the greatest of all dragons.**"

"Alexstrasza is Queen of Dragonkind, Deathwing." Khadgar answered in what he hoped was a sneering tone of his own. "Not you."

"**Humans and their love of titles. We called her Queen, because we all needed to call someone leader. She was never the strongest. Always, I was the stronger. I showed her my power a little while ago, and forced the Reds to fight your petty, fledgling Alliance.**"

"I thought as much." He agreed, "But it changes nothing. You're a betrayer, a destroyer. You're not even fit to call yourself one of the Aspects. You're not even following what the Titans wished for you to do."

"**You dare! You dare talk of the Titans, being which are far beyond your understanding.**" The dragon raged, "**If only for that, you will die here.**"

"Do it, then, if you can." The archmage answered, "I've had enough of trying to talk to an overgrown worm." Yes. The sneer was definitely there. Good.

The dragon swatted him away with its paw, and before Khadgar quite knew what was happening, her was flung into the cavern wall. His vision, blurred by shock and pain, barely made out the dragons open mouth descending upon him as his body twitched and convulsed. He held on the consciousness, hoping for a few instants more…

And then the great head reared back with pain and hatred, and Khadgar felt it. He felt that Alleria had launched her arrow. It, was, he thought, right into the dragon's neck. A peck. A painful one. One which the beast would remove in a moment.

Khadgar called upon all of his powers, his studies, his training. He bid the pain to go away, and reached out with his remaining inkling of power. He touched the arrow with his mind, and then, with what strength remained in him, he forced that very power to open up and strike.

There was a brilliant flash. The roar of pain became one of fear, and then the arrow exploded.

The explosion was like ten dwarven explosives going of at the same time – an arcane bomb, as it were. The dragon's neck was no longer whole – a great gouge, deep and slick with beastly blood, had appeared. The dragon trashed, its eyes filled with something very human – terror.

"**You… I… mortal… just one…**" the dragon gurgled, and then it screamed again. Kurdran had thrown his hammer into the wound, and was holding it again, prepared to throw it again. Despite his pain, Khadgar could see that Alleria was leading the remaining archers and mages into a last, relentless barrage.

The dragon roared and trashed, and then Sky'Ree was upon it, its head plunging into the gouge, and coming away bloody. It resisted the dragon's flailing, enlarging the wound, as the others continued their assault, heedless.

The great Aspect then threw the gryphon down with strength, and began to stomp to the entrance. Khadgar followed the beast's path and saw that it was slowing, weakening. 'Can it be possible? Can we actually kill an Aspect?'

Then Deathwing stopped, bloody, at the edge of the entrance, where the mountainside dropped down for leagues. Its giant head turned towards them all, bloody and battered as they all were, at the end of their strength.

"**Never.**" It boomed, simply, and then it toppled forward, into the darkness of the lower grounds, beyond their reach.

"We got the beastie!" Kurdran growled out, his voice shaking. Alleria was already making her way to Khadgar.

"Let's hope so, my friend." She said, and the archmage looked at her dazedly as she bent towards him. "Are you alright?"

"No." he answered weakly, then chuckled painfully. "Take… scrolls… teleportation… in my sash." It had been his hope to use many more, but these had been dashed quickly. The expedition was now down to six people. Six survivors who had defeated an Aspect.

'But we didn't kill it.' he thought, 'Somehow, I'm certain its still alive. But it should take it a long time to recover from that. Long enough, hopefully.'

"That was good work, all being said. Wasn't it, Alleria?" he asked faintly. She grinned down at him.

"Yes. Something the bards would sing for a millennia at least." She answered gently, and he nodded. 'That's as much as I can do here.'

With that, Khadgar finally let himself go, into blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Dead Mines, Azeroth_

Vedran wondered if one could actually die of shame. If it was possible, then he was certain it would happen to him soon. He had made a mess, and he saw no way to undo what had been done.

He hadn't expected that farmer to be a member of that… Defiance… Defiant… Brotherhood. Not at all. When asked who he was and what he was doing there – especially since he was all but on top of the farmer's girl, he had acted as he was certain his father, a knight, would have : he had said the truth.

Truth, he had discovered, was sometimes best kept to oneself. Because of it, he was locked in a room, like a common prisoner, with no weapon and stale food, while his mother was being cornered by the bandits into betraying Sunshire or worse.

'Mother wouldn't do that.' He told himself, 'She faced down Sylphord Duraz himself, she never faltered during the war. There's no way she'd betray the King!'

'Not even for you, lad?' a mocking voice, sounding like one of the old knights serving his parents, asked him at the back of his mind. Vedran found he could not quite rebuke the voice. His mother had always been highly protective of him and his siblings…

That was all, he was sure, because he hadn't stood up to them like his father would have. Aerth Swiftblade, he knew, would have given the ruffians a terrible battle, beaten them, forced them to confess, then rescued his wife.

As a young child, Vedran hadn't seen much of his father. He had often been away, fighting the Horde. He had heard of him, though, from men who had been in his forces, from bards and merchants and knights. All told him of a brave, intelligent commander, and of a man of honour.

Then the war had been won, and his parents had been awarded a ruined city and its surrounding lands. It had been, he had learned, his mother's home, and she was very happy to return.

His father had been there often, then, erecting watchposts, leading forays against remaining orc warbands, and helping to rebuild the city. Not one knight, not one peasant, mocked his father. When he passed, peasants shouted his name in gladness, and soldiers and knights alike bowed in respect.

He also took to showing Vedran swordsmanship, and told him, some evenings, of his battles during the First War, of Grand Hamlet and Elwynn Forest, of the sack of Moonbrook and the last defence of Sunshire. The young man had then decided that this was the kind of man he wanted to be.

'Some knight I am turning out to be.' He thought to himself as he saw his bleak surroundings. 'I am not even capable of defending myself.' He tried hard not to picture the disappointment his father would show over the whole affair, assuming…

…assuming he lived to see him. There, he'd said it. He'd admitted it. Those bandits might kill him to make a point. Strangely, he felt empty rather than afraid of the idea of dying.

That was then that he heard the sound.

He turned around in time to see the wooden wall bulging strangely, until a form emerged. It was magic, of that he was certain. But what truly sent him into a fit of fear was that the form which emerged was that of an orc.

His first thought was how ugly the thing was. He'd rarely seen orcs, and when he did, they were safely behind thick walls, under watch by well-armed soldiers. He felt his blood rush out of him as he gaped.

The orc, for his part, seemed to be grunting something to himself in a language that Vedran couldn't understand. It had nothing to do with human, dwarven or elven dialects – of which his parents had taught him a few words – so he assumed it was orc speak.

Then the orc looked at him, and his eyes widened. Stories of orcish atrocities, of the many battles between his father's Alliance of Lordaeron and the Horde, surfaced in his mind as he backed into a wall, panting. The orc leaned towards him, and then grinned. Vedran's blood froze. He was going to die. He knew it. This was an orc raid. They were all going to die.

"Well met, young human." The orc mused in a rough but surprisingly gentle voice. "As hard as it may be, try not to be alarmed."

That was the last thing that Vedran expected an orc to say. Although his father had told him that some orcs had, during the Second War, acted with great honour, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. He just couldn't.

"O-orr…. ORC!" he blurted, pointing at the green-skinned newcomer.

"Well, yes, young one." The orc answered, still mild, and sounding, of all things, amused, "That's right."

The young man panted harder, then forced himself off the wall. He was overcome with terror, yet he simply couldn't let the orc see it. He had to control it, be as strong as his father Aerth or his mother Eira would be. Still, his entire body trembled.

"W-will not… have… m-me… p-p-plead… S-S-Swiftblades do NOT beg!" he finally blurted, this time higher. At that moment, a hand closed on his mouth, and he struggled as the orc leaned closer.

"Well said, human, well said. You have you father's fire in you, if the stories about him are true. But don't be misled. I'm not your enemy. Far from it."

That was something Vedran couldn't make himself believe, still, there was something in the orc's eyes. He relaxed, and the orc released his grip.

"Believe it or not, young human, I'm actually here to help you and your mother." The orc mused. "Of course, you're free to disbelief."

"O-orcs helping humans?" he asked, and he cringed when his voice seemed to sneer. He knew he shouldn't be antagonizing, yet he couldn't help it.

"Yes. Hasn't happened often, has it? Nor have humans helped orcs very often, either." He sighed then, "No surprises in that. Two large-scale wars, orclings grown under the flag of hate, the same for humans. My people are actually lucky not to have been entirely killed off."

"My Father would not allow that!" Vedran growled, "My Father is an honourable Knight!"

"So I've heard. But there are degrees of 'honourable'." The orc answered, "I will end this entertaining bout with the question: If the King of Azeroth ordered your father to kill every orcs in his territory, wouldn't your father obey, because of that very honour?"

Vedran stayed silent. The question rather bothered him, but he also felt that to continue wouldn't mean much.

The orc also considered the discussion closed, as he went to the door and banged on it. There was noise outside, a cry for Vedran to stay quiet if he knew what was good for him. The orc took no notice of this, and continued to make noise. Finally, someone moved from farther off, and the orc seemed put his hands together and began to chant something, in what seemed to be neither human speak nor orc speak.

The door opened, and a man wearing a red scarf walked in, his eyes ablaze, a short sword in his hand. Vedran felt a surge of fear. The man's eyes, however, widened as soon as he saw the orc standing there.

He never had time for anything else but to gape, as the ground burst just as the orc finished chanting. What appeared to be roots or vines burst from the ground, spearing him like a piece of meat and shoving him out the door. The vines continued to surge forward as well, and cries of alarm began to echo outside.

And then screams, gasps, and sounds of battle erupted. The orc nodded, looking rather pleased with everything. He picked up the sword that the man had dropped as he died, and threw it at Vedran's feet.

"Remember this, child: hatred is never the only way two races can coexist." He mused.

And then, just like that, he was out the door. A moment later, picking up the sword, the young Swiftblade followed.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Dead Mines, Azeroth_

The House of Nobles. That was their goal. The King of Azeroth was too powerful to attack directly, but they could attack those powerful noble families who supported the King and the recovering process that Stormwind was going through. It wounded her very being that she was being asked to assist in its destruction.

Eira, however, had never thought she'd face the situation in which such a terrible choice would be given her: the nobles or her son would die. She only had to choose who. Van Cleef had had a certain relish in telling her so, even though he tried to appear contrite about the whole affair.

Each choice was simply abhorrent. Although she'd sometimes lied to people, bluffed people over the years, she had always felt a bit of pride in never having actually betrayed anyone. Now, she was about to betray people who trusted her, perhaps destroy everything she and her husband had worked for.

She personally knew the fact that Aerth had built House Swiftblade from a laughable thing to a powerful player largely to make himself worthy of her hand. Her comments that he had proven himself to her more than enough had meant nothing. Stubborn, stubborn man. She loved him for that as well, she supposed.

To betray the integrity of House Swiftblade was unthinkable. But the alternative…

Aerth loved his children, and took a fair amount of pride in seeing Vedran display such vigour and curiosity. But her husband hadn't been there when Vedran had been born, he had barely known the child for many years, busy as he was fighting the Horde. She couldn't – wouldn't – begrudge him that. She knew he had been fighting for Vedran's future.

'But you never raised him. You never had time.' She told herself, 'So, my husband, if the choice was given to you, what would you choose?'

An unfair question. She knew that. She had a feeling that her husband, if given the choice, would probably choose not to betray the King. She also knew the choice would likely destroy him. Loyalty to the King and the Kingdom was something he took to with all of his soul. Strangely, she felt that her son, who was beginning to sound like his father so much, would agree with him.

Then again… she knew another side of the man. She remembered the young knight who had saved her from her own foolishness, who had defied the social barriers without a care in the world. She remembered the young man who'd roused his men from their fear by mocking the orcs besieging Sunshire.

None of this helped her. The fact remained that, one way or another, she would have to make a choice, one she might never accept, or be forgiven for. And she felt that she knew what she would do.

She was loyal to her Kingdom, to her House, to her King. But she loved her son more than any of those. Surely, the Light, at least, would forgive her. Even when she wouldn't forgive herself.

'Forgive me, Aerth. It is for our son.' She mused to the empty air. She wasn't all that certain, even then, with that much at stake, that her husband would have taken that road to save their son. He loved his family – she was certain of that – but he had taken oaths. And he took those very seriously.

No. Aerth would have refused to negotiate. He'd have watched his son die, and would have died in his heart by watching it. Eira Fregar Swiftblade, as strong of will as she could feel herself to be, did not feel that sort of commitment. She was a noble, and as such, was used to compromise.

She rose to her feet, ready to do something – perhaps call the guards to speak with Van Cleef or any of their leaders, perhaps not – when she heard a noise. It was something she had grown quite accustomed to over the many years, although she had never participated in any herself : the sounds of battle.

From the cries of surprised and the suddenness of the attack itself, she quickly came to the conclusion that it was actually a raid. A lightning strike was logical, since only an army could have hopes of ever breaching such a stronghold, so deep into the mountains.

Who was it then? She listened for a moment feeling hope that it might have been a force of knights and soldiers sent by the… dubious… Katrana Prestor. It was dashed when she heard the guttural voices, the shouted oaths, the fury. No human sounded like that. Nor did any elf or gnome or dwarf. This was orc speech, ogre voices.

The Defias Brotherhood was being raided by the Horde.

Fear overtook her for a moment, memories of vast armies laying siege at Sunshire, of her parents butchered, Aerth barely managing to save her form a similar fate. She remembered the immense sea of bodies pummelling on the walls of Lordaeron's proud capital city.

She shivered, gasped, and then she forcefully clamped hard on her fear. The Horde, she remembered, was broken. What remained wasn't a vast army, but small, broken groups, the largest of which were far from Azeroth's territories. They couldn't hope to fight such battles so often. There had to be a reason.

The noise was getting closer. Fear surged again, and she found herself heaving the chair she'd been sitting on, smashing it down, and then picking up the largest piece in her hands like a club. A pitiful weapon, but she wasn't about to play the part of helplessness. If they came, she'd never leave them any choice but to kill her.

All that remained in her mind was her son, and her heart ached. 'Vedran, my dear son…' she muttered, then she stopped as something heavy nearly tore the door down. She heard orc speech on the other side. The battle continued furiously in the background.

'Very well.' She told the enemy with a voice which barely quavered. 'Come then. Let us make an end, if it comes to that.'

The door was smashed in by some unseen force. Magic, she decided. So the enemy was one of the Horde magic-users. She shivered at the thought of having to fight one of the dreaded Death Knights, and her hands shook. Still, she stood firm. Her mother had died screaming in fear. She resolved never to do so.

But it wasn't a undead creature of nightmares which entered the room. It was an orc, aged, dressed in furs and hefting a solid oaken staff. The orc looked at her for a moment, and she readied herself for the end. What happened then stunned her.

"Are you Lady Swiftblade?" The horde asked. Although his voice and accent were of orcish ancestry, the words were definitely softer and more civilized than what she'd been used to over the years. The few orcs she'd met had been violent and savage.

"Mother!" Came an happy cry, and Vedran Swiftblade stepped from behind the orc – who took no action against either her or her son – and hugged her fiercely. This effectively forced any other musings out of her mind for a moment, as she hugged him back in surprise, then in gladness.

"Vedran! My son!" she cried, "Are you alright?! How did you escape?"

"Sir Thornfeet here, helped me." He said, motioning to the orc. He seemed not to know what to do about that fact, but seemed to be willing to go along with it.

Eira looked at the orc with far more jaded views. She'd seen their violence firsthand. Her family had been slain by Horde warriors, and she had been forced into many perils because of them. However, her husband had told her, more than once, that some orcs were different, were honourable. It was hard to believe.

But did she have a choice in the matter?

"The humans defending this place are beginning to regroup. We must leave, Lady Swiftblade." The orc held out a hand. She stared at it. 'There is nothing to fear.'

"So you say. My experience with your people is not so pristine."

"I imagine. But can you afford otherwise?" he retorted, as if he could read her thoughts. "Come, lady. Let's leave this place, and talk about the debt you will owe me later on."

Eira looked at the hand again, then at her son. She heard the sounds of battle. She was no fool.

What was a mother to do? What was a lady to do? Only one sane thing, as insane as it sounded to her mind.

She took the proffered hand.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Westfall, Azeroth_

Onyxia, as a dragon, knew that she would have to put up with many boring details in order to maintain her human identity. One of these dealt with the fact that Lady Katrana Prestor, one of the most powerful nobles in the House of Nobles, had brought Lady Eira Fregar Swiftblade, another powerful noble, to Moonbrooke to investigate the Defias Brotherhood.

That, of course, hadn't been the goal. The goal had been to have Lady Eira captured, the news then carried to Dreanor, where her husband played a crucial command role in the Expedition. Aerth Swiftblade would then return in some way and, as a general, would send forces to the area, scouring it, tipping the fragile order over.

Moonbrooke and the entire region would become a suspicious land. It would then be easy to voice propositions to the House and His Majesty to sever resources. Westfall would become a den of poverty, bitterness, unlawfulness, weakening the human realm.

But all that was for later. Right now, it was necessary to maintain a mask of concern. Thus, she had insisted on taking the Knights who had followed them from Sunshire, and launching into a search, insisting on being here, ignoring their commander's suggestions that she rest… and always gently prodding which direction they should be searching.

The dragon had thus maintained a search pattern well away from the Dead Mines, and the search had turned up nothing. The Knights were becoming frustrated, morose. Lady Eira was the Lady they had pledged to protect, a pledge they had given to Lord Aerth, their old battle commander and a man they admired. To fail him, she knew, would be unacceptable to the Knights. Death would be better for them. _Good._

They rode through the plains, passing through the old, shattered ruins of what must once have been a small human farm. Such ruins were a common sight in Westfall still, while they were becoming few in both Northern and Southern Elwynn.

"Ah, one more remnant of the First War." She mused to the Knight's commander.

"Aye, my Lady." The Knight said gruffly, "This place is twice-cursed. It's not recovering like everywhere else is, or so I'm told." He didn't seem interested in discussing history, only looking around himself grimly for any sign of an ambush or, better yet, his goal.

"Have heart, sir." She said with practiced compassion, "My friend, Lady Eira, is by no means weak. Odds are she is alive." _Hopefully not, but humans, sometimes, can be surprising._ The man grunted a vague affirmative, but seemed unconvinced.

She was about to suggest they pass by the farm and search farther off, when she heard them. Voices. In the woods. Far from the edges of human hearing, but enough for her draconic senses to make out, if barely. She fought back her shock when she recognized Lady Eira's voice. And, even more shocking, the voice of what could only by an orc.

"Thank you. We owe you freedom, and our lives. I will never forget." Eira stated in what appeared to be a rather stunned tone.

"That's just so. Remember, Lady Swiftblade. I may one day ask you to do one thing for me. Don't fear: it won't be something against your principle. It will be the right thing to do. Farewell."

_She survived! And an orc was helping her! _Onyxia had troubled believing what she'd just heard. An orc aiding a human. After decades of war between the two races, so much bad blood and hatred, it was something she'd never considered possible. That something like this could derail her plan was vexing! It meant that…

_It means that I know that Lady Eira of the powerful House Swiftblade has ties to an orc. Very useful. _She reminded herself. The hatred that the people of the Alliance – and those of recovering Azeroth in particular – had for the Horde was something she could use against that House, if it ever became too… troublesome.

"Sir Knight," she intoned, "I heard something. Voices, it seemed." This created a stir. Armour creaked, blades slid from scabbards, and newfound tension filled the group. The Knights had been on edge already. Nothing was needed to render them paranoid. She looked at the area where the voices had come from. She was certain that they had been coming closer. All that remained was to wait.

Her patience was rewarded quickly. Two humans stumbled from the forest, looking tired and somewhat dirty, but unharmed. She recognized Eira at once with her draconic eyes, and was startled to see Vedran Swiftblade, the eldest son, with her.

It didn't take long for the Knights to react. With relief, they kicked their horses and sped towards the duo. Katrana followed with them, her own face carefully showing relief for her dear friend.

"Lady Eira!" she called in what she knew to be a happy voice, "So our search was not in vain! I am delighted to see you well."

Eira gave her a look. It was friendly enough, but held just that hint of steel and suspicion. The woman had never been a fool, which was why Onyxia wanted that family removed in some way, or taken to her side. Suspicion, however, was in no way proof, and the other woman knew it. She thus returned the friendliness with tired friendliness.

"We were lucky. A fight broke out where we were detained, and we were able to slip out." Eira told them, "Captain, you went and searched for me. I thank you."

"My Lady, it was my duty, no less. And I would not have lived the shame of losing my charge to such ruffians." The Knight replied, and many of the others nodded. The tone turned to ice. "If you would tell us where you were detained, we will form a punitive force and destroy these rogues."

Eira raised a hand. "Such details can wait, good Sir. For now, let us go back to Moonbrook. We will sleep a night at the town's barracks, And then leave at first light. I wish to return to Sunshire with my son as soon as can be possible."

"Of course, my Lady. Forgive my manners. These harrowing days have made me uncouth." The knight bowed. "We have a spare horse prepared. It is yours and Lord Vedran's." The knights looked at Vedran in some stupefaction, but seemed to think better than speaking of it.

They rode back to Moonbrook without delay, and Onyxia quickly brought her horse beside Eira's. She gave Vedran a smile, which he returned with the sincerity and uncertainty which so many human children seemed to show. Amusing.

"Lord Vedran, how did you come to be here?" she asked gently. He flushed. His mother's eyes sharpened at once.

"That is… I was…" He mumbled, reddening. He did not get to go any further. Eira took over sharply.

"My son thinks he is his father: a proven warrior." she mused with acerbity, eyes flashing, "Thus he goes and finds new way to make me grey before my time. As if trying to follow your father to Dreanor was not enough, now you find a way to be captured by the Defias."

"But-!" he tried. Eira's eyes cut him off, and he subsided into a sullen silence. It was clear that there was something interesting, hidden, to this story. But she was certainly not about to reveal it to Katrana Prestor at this time.

_So be it. I have other ways. And I am more patient than you can imagine._

The Kingdom of Azeroth had stood for over a thousand years. From colonists clustered around burgeoning Stormwind, to the powerful human realm of the years before the Portal, to its present state, she had been there, in disguise, amassing power, just as her father did in the North. House Prestor, unknown to the foolish humans, was actually as old as Arathor itself.

What were a few mote years, after a millennia of patience?

She would continue to gain power in the House of Nobles. Already, the recent lord of House Fordragon, the gullible Boldovar, was beginning to fall in her grasp. One day, she would also have House Swiftblade. And then…

Then, her plans could start. Her brother could have the Horde, could fool around with transparent schemes. When all was said and done, the power in this part of the continent would remain in the hands of humans, not the hands of orcs.

And she would be there to guide them in whatever direction she chose to.

* * *

_Early Spring 607, Honour Hold, Dreanor_

They'd driven them off. Or more likely tired them out. Although the Horde forces had been numerous, their well-fortified positions on the high grounds and the later disposition of several dwarven cannons had denied the orcs and their allies any advantage. Going up the hill quickly became a bloodbath – one in which orcish blood ran more freely than human blood.

After having fought the orcs for so many years, Aerth had come to the conclusion that he felt like he was in the middle of the First War. The setting was alien, but the tactics were the same. Crude and relentless, they relied more heavily on numbers than on anything else.

Such tactics had actually worked on the armies of Azeroth, since humans had been too proud then – or perhaps simply to foolish – to stop meeting the enemy on the open field. The Alliance armies of the Second War had learned from such costly mistakes. Numbers and strength being lacking, fortification and lightning strikes had become important parts of their actions.

The Horde had also changed their tactics, becoming more cautious, learning not to attack well-fortified strongholds directly, rather preferring to circumvent it until they'd built up sufficient forces.

Not these orcs. These hadn't fought the wars, for the most part. He had seen a few groups trying intelligent manoeuvres. In general, however, the attack had lacked coordination, relying on sheer courage. That had failed, even for the Horde forces, after one too many lightning charges, one too many raids, one too many cannon shots.

Leaving several strong garrisons in place, the core of the army had then returned to Honour Hold, tired yet wearily triumphant. The Alliance Expedition had maintained it foothold. The problem was, of course, immediately addressed: how long could they maintain it and, could they move enough to maintain their hopes of thwarting whatever scheme the orcs thought of unleashing.

"War will never come to Sunshire's walls as long as I live." He mused to himself even as he strode to the meeting room. The knight beside him turned his head, puzzled. He waved any comment aside. 'I need to stop commenting to myself. I'm starting to look a little too eccentric for my taste.'

He came to the doorway leading into the meeting room, and saw Illadan Eltrass, his old friend, standing there. The elf gave him looks of mixed amusement and embarrassment. Before Swiftblade could investigate it further, his answer came from the room.

"Your mother has completely lost her senses!" The voice, belonging to Turalyon, came booming out.

"I wanted to see you, father! She said I could!" Another voice, far younger, one he had heard before, retorted.

"If this was Whitefort or Stormwind, then of course! But here?!? There are limits to indulgence!" Turalyon replied, certainly not sounding mollified in the least.

Swiftblade recognized the voices, and understood the import. However, he did feel a large amount of sympathy for Turalyon, and more than a bit of frustration at the delay. Unlike Illadan, he was not known to be all that polite when such things happened.

Consequently, ignoring the glances thrown his way, he walked into the room, his helmet under his arm, as if nothing of consequence was happening. Human, elven, and half-elven eyes looked at him. He noticed that Turalyon himself seemed oddly glad with the interruption.

"Ah, Lord Aerth!" Turalyon called. At that moment, Illadan also made his way inside. "And Lord Illadan! Just the two men I wanted to see."

"No doubt, Lord Turalyon, no doubt." The elf, as calmly and as smoothly as he ever did anything, slid into a chair at the rough conference table. Every day, Honour Hold was becoming a fixture. It had an increasing air of permanency beyond even their first base, the one now called the Armoury.

It bothered Swiftblade that they might be staying much longer. But it couldn't be helped. He didn't sit down, but went to the fireplace and leaned on the side of it. Turalyon looked back at his son, and began to argue with him all over again. The boy's stubborn streak reminded the general of his own eldest child, and he felt a pang of longing for Sunshire and the family he had living there.

Eventually, the slender boy – who looked neither fully like a human, nor fully like an elf – went away in a childish huff, followed by two elven attendants. The paladin looked as if he'd just battled through five hundred orcs in ten minutes. He slumped in a chair most uncharacteristically, and poured himself the wine lying there.

"Damn that elven woman." He muttered without venom. Actually, one could detect fondness in the tone. "She wants us to carry on raising our son in the middle of a warzone. Light, the insanity of it!"

Illadan looked away at this, something the tired Turalyon didn't see, but Swiftblade certainly did. He thought he understood the reason for it: although he and Sylvanas were clearly, deeply in love, they had no child to call their own. Children were always a subject of melancholy to the powerful elf lord. Swiftblade quickly changed the subject.

"You're a good man, Lord Turalyon. You will figure something out with your son."

"Many thanks, old friend. Would that I felt so confident."

"However, with Khadgar, Danath and Alleria, Illadan and myself are definitely the most experienced commanders you have under your command." Swiftblade noted. The paladin raised his head, while Illadan looked back. "Forgive me, but there must a be a reason for us being summoned. Something other than your son."

Turalyon shook himself. His eyes lost their confusion, their fear. He was drawing himself back into the war's aspects. Once a bit lacking in confidence, war planning had become the man's strong suit. He felt perfectly at ease within it. He clasped his hands in front of him and coughed.

"Light, General Swiftblade, so blunt." The commander of the entire Alliance Army mused, gently chiding. Seriousness returned immediately. "Blunt, but true. I received a message. During the battle, no less. And orc managed to slip it through to me."

"Something?" Swiftblade felt interested at once. Illadan looked pensive. Turalyon, for his part, simply nodded back.

"Aye. A orcish-written letter I managed to decipher with two of my most trusted scribes." He sighed, rubbing his temple. "One of the Clans, the Laughing Skull Clan, want to ally themselves with us. They think we can overthrow Shadowmoon between the two of us."

"Ridiculous." Illadan snapped.

"Why would we even consider it?" Swiftblade asked. Some orcs had been different, changed, back home. But here… here, they were always the violent beast he'd met during the First War. Certainly, nothing which could be trusted resided here.

Turalyon, however, was collected on that point. "My disdain is complete, and yet I must ask: do you remember the Death Knights who managed to force their way into the wild of Dreanor from the Portal? Yes. They carried something. Something of great power: The Book of Medhiv."

Swiftblade gritted his teeth, fighting down the surge of hatred. Medhiv. The corrupt mage who had opened the Dark Portal, caused the First and Second War, and caused so much suffering. Would he live a thousand years, he'd never forget that name… and the fact that his spellbook was reputed to be the most powerful ever written.

And that it had been stolen.

"They have it?" Illadan gasped.

"So they say, and I have no choice but to believe them." The paladin heaved a breath which seemed to come from a deep well. The distaste was evident on him. "And so, friends, here we are. You have the facts."

"Now." He continued calmly. "Tell me, old friends, comrades of so many battlefields: do we ally ourselves with orcs? Do we risk it? Do we dare not to?"

* * *

**The Wetlands as of 607**

The lands called the Wetlands, although long fallen under the nominal dominion of the Bronzebeard Kings in Ironforge, had never been particularly inhabited. Rather, the Three Bridges – and, recently, the Thandol Span – and the road sneaking south had been the only real sign of civilizations, aside from manned forts and outposts guarding that very same road.

Since the Second War, however, things had changed. Orc bands now prowl the lands, sometimes from Grim Batol, sometimes from isolated settlements, while Ogres and other creatures roam about as well. The Dark Iron Clan has also recently begun operations in the area.

To strengthen Alliance presence in the area, the forts have been reinforced, and a deal between King Terenas of Lordearon and King Magni of Khaz Modan has given rise to the fast-growing Menethil Habor, a nominal free city aimed at facilitating Alliance trade as well as providing a deterrent to Horde and monstrous powers in the area.


End file.
